


THE FIRST CIRCLE ( THE KNIGHT, DEATH, AND THE DEVIL )

by Cerulean_Spork



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, LE CARRE John - Works, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Adult Content, Angst and Humor, F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 72,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulean_Spork/pseuds/Cerulean_Spork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before the War, a British officer on leave in Los Angeles encounters a mysterious Australian, to the confusion of both. Romantic implications and tensions, in several directions. Historical and contemporary racism, sexism, homophobia, and mentions of past wars and political infamy. (Story is complete, notes still in the works.)</p><p>ETA: tho i won't take it down, bc history and an important record of evolving awareness, the ending does need to be redone, because Guillermo del Toro is a much kinder and shippier writer than any of us in fandom, and at first I couldn't see because I couldn't imagine anyone being bold enough to do it, and then I didn't dare to believe my First Sight either when I did open my eyes again, that he'd put a poly triad in the form of a Heinleinian line marriage on screen, by way of Orlando Furioso vs Alan Moore -- and so the survivors aren't left alone at the end, which is far more consolatory than we guessed, and by the Prophecy of Merlin which runs throughout all the battles and symbolism of the drama, Herc and Tendo should enjoy many happy years together standing guard on the Marches of Terra before Mako is ready to take charge as the Returned Branch of the Tree of the Tower of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE WARNINGS AT THE GATES

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much crackfic -- started as a serious consideration of how the characters could have met before the war, and then something strange happened and it turned into something that couldn't decide if it wanted to be a "modern day take on mythic and fantasy themes" or a "screwball 1940s comedy" so it tried to be both.
> 
> That's why even though everthing in it FITS with the Shatterdome Heldensagen, it is posted as a separate story because of its length, because most of it takes place completely outside the film timeline, and because it can be seen as AU to the SDHS headcanon as well, with the addition of a romance element -- even though just like SDHS, you can read that element as being as much present, or as little, as you choose. (That is to say, it can be read as entirely chaste and non-physical if you prefer, although I think I've hacked the chain-of-command problem...)
> 
> The massive difference between this and the novelization (or 'deuterocanonical' materials) is that I've moved the Hansens' home to Brisbane, because it is simply beyond any suspension of disbelieve that Sydney could have been demolished as thoroughly as San Francisco was in the film, and exist in the state we see it in onscreen, a dozen years later -- but I've ranted about this on tumblr plenty! It's also significantly closer to the Breach than Sydney and would make a more likely earlier target, too.
> 
> To any Brisbane residents who may be reading this, rest assured it's no dislike of your hometown that inspired me to reroute a sea monster over your way. In fact, after doing all the research for this story, I'd quite like to move there myself -- after all, no place is really safe from interdimensional death machines, as we all know!
> 
> Another big difference is the timeline -- but since none of the extra-film timelines work together or make sense, I've just been making my own up as I go along. Some of this actually does fit with dates that are out there, but that's mostly by accident. (Will try to post a "Heldensagen Timeline To Date" soon. )
> 
> Main thing to be aware of is that I have Stacker (and therefore Herc) several years older to be at least remotely credible as a major player in world politics, with a shadow career to match, and thus around 27-28 in 2004 (which would still put him younger than Wellington, the youngest Field Marshal who wasn't a prince playing dress-up, when the War begins but WTH, we're getting into epic and mythopoeic territory here.)
> 
> Same with the characters' backstory -- everything here is pure headcanon, except for the existence of Luna & Tamsin (also Luna/Tamsin, but since fandom came up with that VERY early on I don't know who to credit.) All headcanon here is free for the borrowing, just like the rest of HS.
> 
> There are so many stories, fandoms, and mythologies referenced in this tale that to list ALL of them in the tags or this header would be confusing -- also very spoilery! -- so they will go at the end once i finish collecting them all, in case you want to check if you spotted them.
> 
> Finally, thanks to my wonderful beta reader Wings for taking on this monstrosity of 'the fic that got away' (then again, isn't that all of them, really?) All mistakes and failures of everything are mine. (Queen's English spellings, however, are NOT an error. I'm not 100 per on it, but try to keep them consistent with the narrative POV in the stories WHICH IS HELL WHEN IT SWITCHES A LOT so this time I sort of lucked out, if you can call anything about "accidentally wrote a 70k quasi-historical fanfic" lucking out.)

**Per me si va ne la città dolente,**  
 **per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,**  
 **per me si va tra la perduta gente.**  
 **...Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.**  
  
 **Through me you pass into the city of woe:**  
 **Through me you pass into eternal pain:**  
 **Through me among the people lost for aye.**  
 **...All hope abandon ye who enter here.**  
 _Inferno, Canto III,_  
Dante Alighieri,  
transl. Henry Francis Cary, 1805  
  


**I... swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance**  
 **to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors,**  
 **and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty,**  
 **Her Heirs and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity against all enemies,**  
 **and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, Her Heirs and Successors,**  
 **and of the Air Officers and Officers set over me. So help me God.**  
Officer's oath, Royal Air Force, United Kingdom  
  


**"Flying will continue this evening as usual."**  
Unofficial motto of the Royal Flying Corps, precursor to the RAF,  
following the first fatal crash on Salisbury Plain in 1912


	2. LOS ANGELES, USA

It was late summer, shading to autumn, which meant that it was still hot in Los Angeles county, and hotter still in the glaring arena of the stadium, even in the shadier tiers of the stands.

For whatever reason, the American air force officers who were hosting this post-RIMPAC hospitality event had decided that a baseball game was the ideal way to showcase their country's glories -- either that, **or** they'd had tickets and not been willing to forgo them -- and they, at least, were enjoying themselves, except when their favourite team or players did poorly.

**_Why are we HERE?_** Stacker Pentecost wondered morosely, looking around at the mostly-white, mostly older crowd, with its not-insignificant numbers of men wearing baseball caps complete with scrambled egg adornment -- because God forbid anyone **not** recognize their rank, even in retirement!

That is to say, he knew why **he** was there -- because he'd been **_ordered_** to attend, to mingle socially with Allied counterparts in hopes of making useful connections towards the future, or such was the official story. He'd objected, pro forma, that he was on leave, was in fact **about** to fly on to Denver for a week of hiking in the Rockies en route to the capitol, and that there **must** be somebody else at the Consulate-General they could tell off for this duty, wasn't there?

When they said **_No_** \-- but he'd be meeting up with another RAF liaison from the Consulate, it was a good thing they couldn't see his expression just then, because he understood exactly what **wasn't** being said, and determined that he'd push hard over getting his ticket to Denver reimbursed as "travel duty," leave notwithstanding, as payback for this.

There had been some Canadian and Australian aviators in the party, some of whom had looked **quite** as pleased about the business as he himself, and the other RAF man -- and it was an **entirely** masculine outing, he couldn't help but notice, as, save for himself, entirely white --had met his sister on exercises in the Baltic some time ago, so he didn't feel quite so isolated among the American pilots with their sharp, icy smiles and loud laughter.

But they'd shaken his hand and made polite noises about the weather and different postings, and he supposed they'd "developed rapport," whatever **that** meant!

He'd been hard pressed not to laugh when he saw their transportation, though -- **_A Humvee? Really?_** \-- even if it **was** one of the fancy civilian-marketed models, all glittering oxblood-red, with leather seats, air conditioning, a skylight, and an entertainment centre inside. That made it worse, in fact, it felt like something a petty tyrant in a movie would be driven around in while his people begged in the streets -- the **only** thing lacking was a mini-bar!

The other four had ridden in a bright red pickup truck with a bed long enough to hold a normal passenger automobile (not an American one, of course) with "all mod cons" as well, and somehow he managed not to even smile, at the pure cliché of it.

The stadium had been interesting, in a retro Hollywood way -- the sign in the car park that looked like a UFO had been worth a picture to send Luna and the rest of the Hogwarts gang, and the conversation about place names and commercially-motivated changes which didn't ever get accepted by the locals (and which, to him, paralleled the politically-motivated ones in history) had been both interesting and amusing at the time.

But that had been several hours -- several dreary, undifferentiated hours under the glaring yet singed-looking Los Angeles sky, listening to gibberish over the tannoy, and to the screams and shrieks and curses of fans all around him as things happened on the field below, which evidently had a great deal of significance to those who understood the game and cared about the outcome, but meant nothing to him.

That terrible feeling, too familiar for words to those who must wander, but which all may be summed up in the single juncture -- **_I just want to be HOME_** and **_I don't know WHERE that is_** \-- was roiling through him and the bright sunlight and wide-openness of this strange land were making him feel less connected to everything than usual.

He would far rather be back at the hotel, reading the book -- hardcover, and extravagant, one of the problems with travelling all the time being staying anywhere long enough to get a library card -- he'd picked up in the lobby gift shop -- especially without anyone else around to give him grief about it.

(Many years later he will **make** the effort to master the rules and customs of the game in a slightly different form, as it meant a great deal to a small child, being one of the things her family did together before the War came to them. But **that** will be in a different world altogether.)

"Better than **cricket** , huh?" One of the Yanks was nudging him, apparently concerned that he show approval of this programme. But he was in no mood to play conciliator, not now, not today...

"Not noticeably," he replied.

"Oh, c'mon! Cricket's the most boring game **ever** , Guinness Book of World Records **says** so!'

"I suspect that **every** game's **_dull_** , if you've no interest in the teams," he shrugged, without any heat in his words, just stating his opinion -- but it landed like a spark in dry tinder.

"Hey, just remember -- if it wasn't for **us** , you'd be speaking German now!"

**_Ah. THIS again._ **

"But I **do** speak German," he said, quite seriously. "I was at Brüggen, before the draw-down."

One of the other guests, a couple of seats over, had a spot of difficulty with his beer, but he couldn't tell who, or if it was coincidental.

"I was stationed at **Rhein-Main,** but **_I_** didn't go native," the American pilot said, with an innocent smile.

**_Aren't you a clever little bastard?_** Pentecost thought, and continued, "And **Berlin** , and **Vienna** \-- diplomatic posts **are** rather nice, **but** you've **_got_** to be able to speak the lingo, **if** you're going to sell people expensive aeroplanes. Or convince them not to press charges over **broken windows** , in the courts **_or_** the media."

The other guest cleared his throat again, and this time Pentecost spotted who it was -- the red-haired Australian with the face like a Roman boxer, all stony angles and grim lines; but he was staring straight out at the players, quite intent on the game, so it didn't **seem** like he'd been paying attention to the byplay after all.

"Oh, I think it's **_fascinating,"_** said the other RAF fellow, who either didn't have a headache yet, or was willing to dish out the charm to someone who didn't seem to have **any** conversation besides sports, sex, shooting things, and sports, and what Whitehall thought would be accomplished by **cultivating** this dolt he couldn't tell -- but if Mr. Hughes **wanted** to make the sacrifice he was welcome to it!

A couple of times he noticed the Australian looking at him, and wondered at it, but at least the man was quiet -- he couldn't imagine that his conversation would be any less profane, or more **interesting** , than the other officers' was.

Eventually the game finished, to the delight of some and the dismay of others, and they straggled out onto the pavement to shoulder their way through the crowds, back to the flaming monstrosities that **only** wanted rocket launchers to look like they'd driven off some post-Apocalyptic Hollywood set, and headed off to some local watering hole the USAF men thought highly of.

The RCAF pilots **looked** as bleak as he felt, during the noisy after-action report on the game, and the speculation as to which players were taking which drugs, and massive number tallies that had no obvious relation to anything going on in the course of play, and Hughes just looked benignly amused. (The Australians had piled into the oversized pickup truck--which had **plainly** never seen an honest day's work in its operational life, there being not one wisp of hay nor one speck of mud in the bed--so he had no idea what their reactions to the day's "entertainment" might be.)

The bar -- which had to be reached by motorway, because nothing in LA was close to anything else in LA -- was one of those metal-and-tinted-glass affairs, shiny and new and looking like a furniture store that sold barstools made of chrome, with luminous piping in acid yellow and cobalt blue around the trim, not at all warm or inviting looking from outside -- and not, it turned out, warm or inviting in **actuality** , either.

It was early, so the line of patrons outside wasn't very long, but it was a trendy location, so there was a line, and when they came as a group to the door, the burly bald man in the motorcycle vest -- really, was it even **possible** to be any more cliché? -- raised his hand, not to take his ID but in obstruction.

**"Excuse me.** We have a **dress code."**

**_So is this revenge for daring to criticize America's National Pastime, or is this an innocent mistake?_** he wondered, because you couldn't shut off your analytical capacity, under any circumstances, it was **always** running in the background. **_It doesn't really matter--_**

Funny, how a little while ago he'd wished for nothing more than the chance to return to his hotel and his book, and now it was within his grasp, it was bitter as ashes.

But it was not a winnable argument, not when not one of the others would take his part, not even fellow officers of the Queen -- **all** of them looked away, in embarrassment, or irritation, or (possibly) shame -- and he sighed, and drew breath to make his excuses--

**"Oi! This is _bullshit!"_** The voice was far too loud -- almost right in his left ear, and only iron self-control kept him from leaping aside, or out of his skin. But he only turned his head, to find that the red-haired Australian had stepped up behind him, and now stood flanking him, glaring across his shoulder at the doorkeeper.

He gestured to his own outfit, demanding loudly, "What d'you mean, **_dress code?_** We're **all** bloody dressed the same -- polo shirt, jeans, trainers, _**I**_ don't see any **difference!"** His expression said otherwise, that he saw very clearly and wasn't amused at all.

**_Who the hell ARE you,_** Pentecost thought, **_and WHY are you doing this for me?_**

"This is a **private establishment,"** the bouncer began, and, **"This** is a public house," the red-haired man cut him off, tilting his head so that he was staring up from under his eyebrows, **glowering** like the bull of Connacht. "Discrimination's **illegal** , in this country. **_You're_** breakin' the **_law."_**

The silence of everyone else around them became suddenly very loud, like the deafness following upon an explosion, bringing with it a terrible clarity to Pentecost. What had been one, unchanging path **split** , suddenly and without warning, into two. The choice was **his** : yield, and undercut this unexpected ally before his own comrades -- **or** stand and hold, the two of them alone, on what sort of ground, **indeed?** Open, intersecting, hemmed-in or desperate?

"I could press charges," he said, conversationally, and watched the bouncer's expression flicker uncertainly, at his accent.

"That... **wouldn't** be a good idea," one of the American pilots said, with a mixture of unease and arrogance.

**"I'd** testify, in court," said the man beside him. He realized that the Australian had positioned himself in such a way that his shoulders forced the rest of their group to keep their distance -- not simply backing him up, but shielding him physically from any other approach on that hand, and thereby very obviously obliging the other RAF man to manoeuvre around him, when he came up to them.

"Pentecost. You **don't** want to do this," he said in a low voice, looking pained, sincere, and to the trained eye, utterly false. "I'm **terribly** sorry, but...you **_know_** how it is, here...." And then he went and put his hand on his right shoulder, blinking, his smile becoming even more apologetic and pitying. "Come on, be -- **_'the better man,'_** hm?"

Pentecost looked at his brother officer, who'd sworn the same oaths as he, taken the Queen's Commission the same as he, who'd heard all the same words about service and community and loyalty and duty that he had, all those years, and thought about how **easy** it would be to wipe that smirk off Hughes' face so that only plastic surgery would put it back -- and the red-haired man made a sort of **snarling** noise in the back of his throat, the kind of raw angry sound that has no follow-on **but** violence, and he knew he **_had_** to stop this, right now, instead.

But **that** was going to be like defusing a bomb! What had his comrades called him--? **_Right--_**

**"Stand down** , Mr. Hansen," he said, his voice loud enough, but perfectly level. And when the other turned his head, snapping that hot blue stare in his direction, he **held** his glance, and repeated himself. " **Stand down --** **_please."_**

And, beyond wondrous, the RAAF man did. Settling back into an "at ease" position, though still standing square and set enough to be as menacing as a mountain in morning fog, he canted his head back to look at the rest of their -- **companions** , **_that_** was the word, **not** comrades **_at all_** \-- with a contemptuous twist of his face.

**_So what do we do now? How to extricate ourselves here? How's that go--_ **

"Time to **_throw smoke,_** Mr. Hansen." And that bit of military Strine got through the red-faced fury, somehow.

"Right. **_Right._** \--Y'know, let's **ditch** this sorry lot. I know **loads** better places than this joint, in LA." And he nodded down the street, turning his pale gaze -- uncanny, like molten glass, or burning ice-- back to Pentecost's. "After you?" lifting his brows a little.

Sometimes one has no idea, when the world, or at least one's place in it, is about to change forever. This was **not** one of those times.

It was with a sense of committing **momentum** , as certainly as stepping off a cliff over cloud-bank, not knowing whether rocks or ocean lay below, that Pentecost turned on his heel and walked in the direction the Australian had indicated, without looking back -- but he could hear that Hansen had fallen in behind him, and so he continued, despite the exclamation of the others, back there, and one indignant, yet dismayed, and imperative, **_"Pentecost!"_**

**_Whistle for a wind,_** he thought with a strange satisfaction, **_you'll have more luck!_** Only one set of footsteps followed on his heels, and he didn't halt until they'd come to a cross street and turned the corner and some ways past that.

The other man stopped when he did, and stood very still, which was a good thing because he was standing far too close, and he was much too tall and broad-shouldered -- almost a match for he himself -- for comfort, even leaving aside the look of angry disgust on his bluff, bony face. (But it wasn't **at** him, but rather **for** him, and **_that_** was the most unsettling thing at all, about the stranger...)

"So." He let out a noisy, relieved breath. "D'you have any place you'd **rather** head to, now?"

"No. **This**...is **_not_** my city. Not **any** of them." If this were London, or Hong Kong, or Tokyo, or Washington, or even Paris or Rome...but this bright city with its palms and glass towers, its flat bare streets that had no natural curves or hollows, bleak and stark as a city made by a computer gamer with no imagination, **this** was no place he belonged, ever.

"How many you got?" the other joked, but his jaw was still tight, his neck corded, and his shoulders were braced as if against a blow, or for charging into a fight. He swallowed hard. **"Thanks** for gettin' me out of there before I got us **both** in trouble -- if that smarmy little JAFA had gone an' called you 'Gunga Din' -- I would've pulled his fuckin' head off an' kicked it down the alley."

**_Oh. You heard that too, It WASN'T just me,_** Pentecost thought. But what he said was, "You think that **might** have been a bit excessive?"

"Nah, it would've been **exactly** what he deserved, the bastard. But the LAPD would prob'ly disagree, an' the Crown, an' the DoD -- and I dun' even want to **think** what the **_paperwork_** would look like for that," raising his eyebrows almost comically high, and against -- or rather without -- his willing it, Pentecost laughed.

"No, that **wouldn't** be worth it. But it's the thought that counts." Easily he added, "If you wouldn't mind hailing me a cab, so I can get back to the hotel?"

But the red-haired man looked at him, very affronted.

"What, **you** think I meant to **ditch** you? I just thought you might know someplace here **yourself** , but, if you're not familiar with LA -- well, I **wasn't** jokin' when I said there's loads better places to get a drink. And **not** just because of the arsehole owners. Real beer, good music -- **not** one of these canned hamburger joints!"

**_Oh._ **

"I don't think they **come** in tins," he said, stalling, which got him a puzzled look. "I'd still like to go back to the hotel, and take care of a few things, first."

"Right --which one you at?" And when Pentecost told him, "Okay, right, I know what bus line that's on, we can pick it up one block over," and he set off, and then stopped abruptly, turning to face him with a quizzical look.

"I'm sorry, I didn't **quite** catch your name back there," he said, in the tone that said, **_I heard, but am too polite to say I don't believe it!_**

"Stacker Pentecost," he answered, lifting his chin a little, daring the other to say something, anything--

"Hercules Hansen," the Australian said in turn, with the same gesture, and a lifted brow -- doubling the dare.

Pentecost blinked.

**"You** win." And the man's face broke into a smile that transformed his face like sunlight on an old brick wall.

"Believe me, I'd rather **return** that prize," and he sighed. "By the time you're old enough to change 'em, it's yonks too late to do any good!"

"I'm sure **that** will turn out to be the main motivating factor, when the first functional time machine gets built," Pentecost said glibly, far more so than he felt, as one stress had fallen to a relief, only to reveal a thicket of other stresses lying in wait like so many pine trees beneath your landing gear when you thought the clouds hid only a field...

Hansen turned out to know what he was talking about, when he claimed to know the local bus system, and got him back to his hotel without difficulty or excessive delay -- for which he was almost as grateful as the earlier intervention.

Along the route he tossed off commentary regarding local landmarks, and dropped random names of persons and events, which presumably would have meant something if he were familiar with the area -- **or** less distracted -- interspersed with chatter about his family, something about his wife's people living in the neighbourhood and how they'd planned to all come over on holiday together, but then **something** had come up at her work that was important and what with their kid and everything she **couldn't** pass up the opportunity for advancement, so he was here for a fortnight on his own helping her parents fix up their place, and--

It went on and on **and _on_** , and he half-listened, while contemplating just how badly he'd botched this operation, and wondered if he **might** have pre-empted the debacle by a judicious application of cash -- or if that would have made it **worse** , because after all, this was America, not some lesser country where bribes were routine, as they always liked to remind one!

**_No,_** he thought, with a strangely distant anger that was equally divided between his hosts and his masters -- the bar owners didn't even figure, as any matter of consequence -- **_if I could reset to an earlier point, I would do NOTHING different. This was NONE of my operation, and none of my business, until they made it so -- but I'm not here to be a PAWN in their status games with the Americans!_**

(But of course he **was** , and there would be the piper to pay, sooner rather than later...)

Once at the hotel, he found that his companion had assumed he was to accompany him up to their room, and so was doing so -- which was again **strange** , to not be left to his own devices, once no one needed anything of him.

"How formal **is** this place you're takin' us?" he asked, and when the other man gave him a puzzled look, "Mess Dress, or Service Dress?"

Instead answering, the Australian asked in a surprised tone, "You've got your Mess Dress **with** you? On holiday?"

"I'm off to **Washington** , after my leave's up," he said, a little more grimly than he'd intended, though not as much so as he felt about it.

He waited again for the RAAF man to say **something** about regulations, to challenge him on his decision in some way, but Hansen only knit his brows in thought, before replying, **"Not** Mess Dress -- it's a **tuxedo** , people will think you're a waiter," and having received the correct response, Pentecost nodded agreement and took his uniform in the bathroom to change.

As he knotted his tie, he wondered what his grandfather would think of what he was about to do, and if he'd approve or not -- well, aside from the fact that he wouldn't approve of him having made this career choice in the first place, still less the reasons **for** it! But he didn't change his mind -- **yes** , it would be hot, but this place wasn't as hot as Singapore or Cairo, and surely wherever they went would be air-conditioned. Arctic, even, judging by past experiences in this country!

"Feel like I'm lettin' the side down," the red-haired man said, with amusement, looking down at his own knit shirt and blue jeans with rueful dismay, and again Pentecost wondered that a man who'd seemed so dour and fierce, but an hour ago, could show such a light and even mischievous side -- it really was like a sudden bright ray of light, from bleak overcast. Or more the late gold of afternoon, falling on a cliff side, mellow and charming.

**_I don't really know him,_** he told himself, **_I have no idea who this man truly is,_** and ignored the mocking inward voice that called that a lie.

"This place must cost a fair bit per night," Hansen added, looking around at the furnished room, larger than some London flats.

"I don't know -- I **suppose** ," Pentecost conceded. **"I** didn't pick it, it was on the list," as though it were any of the other man's business.

**"We** can put you up," the other said earnestly. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want, we got **plenty** of room."

"That... **won't** be a problem?"

"No. No, **_not_ at all." **

It was madness to even **contemplate** it, going off-grid, going home with someone he'd only just met, taking his word that this man's relatives -- not even blood relations, only by marriage -- wouldn't put up a fuss -- but if he weren't **_here,_** then it would be more difficult for his superiors to call him on the carpet.

"All right, then. Let me get my kit together." There was very little of that; aside from the suit bag, he only had the one duffel and his book to pack into it -- he'd taken the garish jacket off it, but Hansen still looked over with the discreet curiosity of the polite reader, trying to see the title -- but **didn't** ask.

**_One MORE thing to be grateful to him for, that..._ **

Again the steady stream of patter, the casual descriptions of places and their historical significances, like a tour-guide with an eclectic streak -- Pentecost could find no theme or constant between what buildings or streets caught the other man's interest, and so only listened, with half his attention, or less than that, and the rest on figuring out what defence of his actions -- **_Why the hell should that fall on ME? But it will!_** \-- he would make, when they caught up with him.

And then they were at the place, and he had no idea where on the map they might be, for all he'd thought he'd paid his usual attention to the turnings of the road, once he'd manhandled his bags out of the narrow aisle and down the steps of the bus.

It was, however, clearly a familiar location to his companion, whose expression had shifted to that cheerful, brightening aspect -- not only his face but his entire bearing grown easy as he stood waiting.

Looking at the place he'd been brought to, Pentecost wasn't sure **_why._**

The outside of the building was dark and strangely textured -- he'd never **seen** black stucco before -- though knew of no reason it shouldn't exist, either, since it was painted all the other shades of beige, tan, off-white, khaki, and of course beige that he'd seen everywhere today.

And there really wasn't any reason not to mix the same sparkling glass (or plastic or whatever it was) chips of blue-green colour into the paint, that was used on swimming pools and patios around here, either. But it was a weirdly dramatic, **insistent** effect that stood out from all the other buildings, as it was meant to.

He couldn't tell if it were ugly or lovely, just that it **was** , and was so, very emphatically. And that was just the background!

In a sort of stylized orchard across the façade were rows of fake trees -- no, **real** dead branches of a pretty significant size, sanded bare and painted a glossy white, before being slid into a bar of dark metal rings that ran across the façade to either side of the door.

Their trunks didn't reach all the way to the pavement, so what you had was the effect of a palisade of ghostly birches, floating in the air against a wall of glittering darkness, sparkling in the cold bluish LEDs that twined between the branches in place of leaves. Silver foil blossoms were wired to them, though, and glass gems of the large and gaudy kind hung in the place of fruits.

Over the door, in a neon that was strangely eye-catching for being pure white, bent in letters that were simple, classical, and easy to read -- again, a novelty, particularly in LA! -- were set the words **THE FIRST CIRCLE.**

**_How very appropriate,_** Pentecost thought, and muttered, " 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here,' " only halfway under his breath. The man who'd called himself Hercules Hansen looked at him, very seriously.

"We don't need to go in, if you'd rather **not** \-- we can go somewhere else," he said quietly. "But I **promise** , there'll be **_no_** trouble here, **except** what you bring in with you."

**_And that's meant to be reassuring?_ **

He looked at it for another second, and back at the other man, and thought about what his friends on the other side of the water would say, to the thought of him following a fox-haired stranger into a place like this, dark and gleaming with witchlights, a door into who-knew-where -- or when?

**_If I'm lucky it'll only be tomorrow, when we leave!_** And wished that this stranger were, in fact, the sort of person he could share that joke with.

"Well." And he shrugged. "So long as there's nothing worse than **karaoke** inside," and he opened the door and strode through briskly, leaving the Australian to hasten after.

 

It was just as disorienting inside as the outside would lead one to believe, which was a nice bit of consistency, at least. The floor was glossy black tile, but not marble or even ceramic -- the gloss of linoleum well-buffed, rugged and economical -- institutional tile, as in an airport or hospital hallway.

The walls were dark and plain as well, not painted black but a twilit blue that became deeper than night in the shadows, adorned in simple geometric reliefs with no sharp projections or decor that might get broken off by, or stuck **into** , a clumsy or careless patron.

The ceiling was dark as well, but set with many more small LEDs, like distant stars, right over to where the bar was lit by recessed lamps of the same blue-white hue (plus a few warmer lanterns of Art Deco style, in milk glass and hammered copper) and across that open expanse they reflected in the linoleum's sheen until the floor looked like a frozen river on a moonless night, catching the night sky -- or a plane of unseen energy, dividing the galaxy in two.

"Are they shooting another World War Two movie this week?" the bartender asked, staring in open curiosity at his uniform and kit bag, as they approached. Then he recognized his companion -- who was yelling "Oi! Javier! Got a booth for us?" loud enough to be heard **in** Australia -- and exclaimed, **"Herc!** Back in town again? Has it really been a year now? Where's Lady Angela?"

**_Is this one of those Rennfaire places?_** The barman was wearing a loose shirt and waistcoat something like a Morris dancer's or a pirate's, and his dark brown hair was rather long, and worn flowing loose past his collar.

"Certifications an' things with the hospital, new ICP training mess -- she'll be along in a bit, with the kid."

"That's right! Make sure you bring 'em on down, you hear? So what brings you here **tonight?"** He looked curiously from one to the other, but without any evident hostility.

"Oh, we got kicked out of some new place, not **good enough** for 'em --" Hansen made a don't-want-to-talk-about-it gesture, which seemed an **odd** way to gain entrance to another bar, but apparently he was indeed well-enough known to this establishment that it didn't count against them. The bartender grimaced, exchanged glances with Pentecost, and shook his head.

"Which one? Let me guess," and he did. "They're gonna get **sued** , someday. But not today, huh?"

Hansen shrugged.

"Yeah, I kinda almost punched somebody, so, y'know, that would prob'ly count against our favour. But their loss, **your** gain! Or is it **our** gain?" He frowned, making a joke out of it just as he'd started to seem arrogant beyond words.

"Everybody's gain," the younger man shrugged. "You can see, we're **not** real busy yet, so take any table you want. What would you like to start with, gentlemen? Guinness? If that's not too obvious--"

Pentecost shrugged -- Guinness was always safe, and didn't make you feel like you were being cheated by a serving of vinegar-flavoured soda at the price of beer -- and asked if there were any place to hang up his uniform bag safely?

The poetical (or piratical, or possibly both) bartender waved his hand in the general direction of the tables.

"Yeah, there's a little **thingy** , right on the wall there -- Herc, **you** can show him, right? Show him where the little thingy is?"

There was, indeed, a **_little thingy_** (which some might have termed a "niche," or possibly a "recess") in the post that defined the booth perimeter against the wall and bore a slightly larger blue-white LED light in a frosted cube at the top which cast its muted glow on the dark wood tables below. Having safely hung the damned dress uniform from this, and shoved his bag under the far back of the table, Pentecost sat down, and tried to relax, but without much luck at coming **off** the que vive.

Hansen followed him in a moment, with their glasses of beer.

"That's one of the partners' nephews -- place is **owned** by a retired fireman and a former set designer for the Opera Company."

"And **_that_ means?"**

"Everything's a **lot** less expensive than it looks -- an' it **_won't_** burn down."

"Important considerations when choosing a place for R&R," Pentecost agreed, not in the least ironically, and looked about at the furnishings with a new eye. Definitely made with an eye to the best show, while still holding up to active use -- but he could see that it wasn't extravagant, the prudent simplicity displayed by the façade construction and floors was everywhere.

"Pentecost..." The Australian frowned, and he braced himself for the inevitable questions and to deliver the inevitable spiel -- might as well get it over with now!

"It's an old Midlands name," he began, summoning up the safe barebones outline of the fucked-up saga of Matthew Pentecost, Bristol stationer who'd determined that people in the Colonies would need books and papers and set up as an importer of the same in Jamaica, met and married a woman of the Islands and settled there through the rise and fall of fortunes, his grandson gone for a sailor impressed upon the latest go-round with the French, only to survive Trafalgar and Nelson alike, settling back in Bristol after war's end--

"Just seems like I've **heard** it before," Hansen shook his head. " **Read** it somewhere, maybe? Ohh, yeah **_that_** was it -- y'know how when you're a kid growin' up in the air force, you wanna know **everything** about the Battle of Britain--"

**_If I believed in FATE, I wouldn't be surprised by this--_ **

"I mean, what boy **doesn't** dream of flyin' a Spitfire, right--"

**_I didn't -- that was always HER dream, not mine--_ **

"--I'm sure there was a pilot in one of my library books, name of--"

**"Thomas** Pentecost. My grandfather."

"Whoa! **No way?!"** The other pilot looked delighted, if half incredulous. "What an amazin' coincidence! That's **_wild_** \--so it's like the family business, eh?"

"Eh...by way of an unintended detour."

"Oh -- your dad **wasn't** RAF too?"

"No...Army. 'S why I'm not Thomas myself, since you're too polite to ask. Pal of his was killed over in Ireland, last of his family, no one left to carry on their name -- so he gave it to me, instead. Hell of a bequest, all I can say."

The stout was much better than the chemical-coloured soda water they'd served at the ball game, that was for sure!

"Whoa -- well, at least he named you for **someone** he cared about -- **not** after his **_aircraft."_**

Pentecost stared at his new companion, aghast and half in disbelief.

**_"No."_ **

"Oh yeah," Hansen said, with an expression equal parts pain and laughter. "He could get away with it, 'cos, well, **it's a _name_** , you can't call your kid 'C-130' an' expect **that** to fly--" He shook his head, took a long drink of his own beer, shook his head again.

"At least I'm not flyin' one of them meself," he added, with the look of someone trying to make the best of a situation without one. "I'd never hear the end of that, bad enough havin' them on the same field!"

**"You're** still ahead."

"Ah, who's keepin' score -- there's plenty of parents've screwed their kids up with worse names than ours! Or worse than names..."

"Yeah," and he put back more stout. "I hear you on that."

" 'S funny, I loved **readin'** about the dogfights and the daring daylight raids, makin' models of them all to play with -- **_nrrrrrr!_** \-- **_vrratatatatat!"_** He made the old familiar gestures of children playing fighter plane. "But what I **wanted** to do, meself, was go to **COFA--"**

Pentecost raised his eyebrows, not sure what that acronym referred to, and the other quickly explained, "Art school, part of the University -- was gonna be a sculptor."

"Oh." He wasn't sure why the Australian was sharing this confidence with him, or what it had in relation to anything else.

"But me old man said no son of **his** was gonna do anything as poncey as **art school,** so, eh, I ended up drivin' a bus, same's him."

**_"Oh."_** **_I see. Unfortunately!_** Pentecost knew all too well what that was like, in general, if not the same particulars.

"Yeah, my father was dead set on my making flying officer as well. Though I didn't **have** any **other** plans to be dashed..." **_Never was allowed to consider any!_** "But I **wouldn't** have minded being a little more -- **_hands-on_** , with the engines. Granddad said knowing which end of the spanner was which **saved lives** more than once, back in the day. But aircrew wasn't posh enough for my old man."

"Enlisted pay's not so good, though," Hansen said judiciously. "An' they ain't so easy to fix any more, you can't just bang on 'em an' tie 'em up with a bit of wire!"

"No, that's true," Pentecost agreed, and wondered why he'd just returned the favour of that confidence.

"Oh, we **forgot!** The toast--" And Hansen merrily raised his glass and cried loudly, "The Queen! Long may she reign, 'cos she seems like a nice old gal, an' to Charlie Over The Water, Dear Lord, Please **Keep** Him There!" Pentecost, who had dutifully raised his own glass at the first words, snorted.

" **You're** not a fan of the Prince of Wales?"

"Oh, **you** know what a pain royal visits are -- an' **then** he goes pokin' his nose in all kinds of stuff he don't know **anything** about, tellin' everyone how to do it anyway."

"Yes, I read the papers too. **We** don't want him doin' it, either."

"Sorry, can't foist him off on **us,"** Hansen said with a rueful headshake. "You could **try** donatin' him to America -- they're **big** on royalty here, maybe **_they'd_** take him for a tourist attraction?"

"I thought this was supposed to be the **_loyal_** toast?" and the Australian grinned.

"I **am** \-- I keep showin up to work every day, don't I?" Somehow Pentecost found himself laughing at this unexpected light-hearted side of his unexpected ally -- the forbidding, even skull-like face with its hard bones and harsh, steely expression so **_changed_** , that it was still unnerving to watch him, his undivided attention also unnerving, in itself.

**_What does he WANT from me?_** Pentecost couldn't help thinking, because **nobody** , except for that handful of like-minded fellow readers around the globe -- and that was mostly a shared enthusiastic attention for the same subjects of conversation, for them all, really -- **ever** gave him that, unless they **needed** something, some **_access_** he could grant, or so they hoped--

That some random white guy from the other side of the world, who'd no previous knowledge of him **nor** any mutual acquaintance, should turn out to be a -- well, at least **friendly** , and to know of his redoubtable, though not famous, grandfather to boot, **and** to seek his conversation and company with no apparent ulterior motives, was shocking enough...and **also** gratifying.

It **ought** to have started setting off serious warning bells much earlier than it would, but he was jet-lagged, had had all his plans unexpectedly derailed, and catastrophically so, and had a serious headache starting from sun and stress on top of it, so it wasn't entirely unsurprising.

But Hansen jumped from topic to topic -- long-forgotten aerodromes in Los Angeles once used to film war movies -- the city's ongoing war on smog and the comparison with cities back in Australia -- the war in Afghanistan, for which he'd flown refuellers for a brief while, and what a dog's dinner **that** was ("I thought the sun'd set on the Raj, so what the fuck're we **doin'** in the Khyber Pass again?") -- weather across the globe -- shuttling VIPs around -- the price of petrol in different places, and what accounted for the variance -- sports culture in America versus Australia's -- and the constant leaps and shifts of tone kept him too involved in the conversation to stop and think critically about any of it.

And the other man made sure they didn't run out of beer, even as more people started coming in, and the music suddenly came up from the quiet background of whatever it had been, modern, instrumental and unfamiliar but not offensive, to a louder and more insistent sort of music, mostly rock but of a more lyrical sort than the sort ordinarily played in clubs, on those social occasions when he hadn't been able to get out of it.

Hansen nodded to where the unanchored tables were being shifted away by the wait staff, and additional lighting turned on over that area, small spotlights of pale jade green and whitish gold, though it was still quite dim overall.

"Dance floor, it's the weekend -- people like to get their party on early, y'know?" He wrinkled his forehead humorously, adding, "There **will** be karaoke later, by the way -- that's not a **real** problem, is it?"

"So long as it's not **obligatory,"** Pentecost shrugged. Hansen started to ask something else, and then stopped himself, frowning again.

Instead, he started talking quite seriously about Australia past and present, in a way which explained not only how his family had gotten to that country so long after the initial waves of colonization, and why as Danes they'd gone **there** rather than, say, Minnesota or any of the other large Scandinavian-predominant areas of the United States -- and also cast some light on his unexpected behaviour, earlier in the day, perhaps.

"Like, they actually **called** it that -- the 'White Australia Program,' no shame at all, can you believe it? Nowadays they just talk rubbish about 'culture' when they want to pretend they're not keepin' refugees out because of that," he scowled into his beer, "but nobody's **fooled** by that -- 'cept for the real drongos, or the ones that wanna be. What a **_fucking thing_** to find **out** , eh? When my Flight Sergeant told me that, I di'nt **believe** him, at first--"

Hansen leaned back in the booth, staring up at the unseen ceiling and its fictional constellations, shaking his head.

"Hell of a thing -- they tell you when you're a kid, how everybody's equal, Brotherhood of Man 'n all that, Free World and it's all wonderful now, an' you **believe** them."

Even though Pentecost said nothing to him at that, he went red, and looked down, hunching his shoulders in an awkward shrug.

"Well, **some** of us it's easy, right...but when you're a kid you don't **know** enough to know who's lying about **what** , and then here it turns out how you were just brought over to be a make-weight, to **be** ballast to keep out families from Asia 'cos they're Not Like Us -- it wasn't **really** on account of your grandparents were heroes of the Resistance, that was just the **excuse** \--"

And then he went on to make the age-old lament of the soldier who has learned even a little about world politics, "And then you just keep findin' **out** they're lyin' to you, about **_everything."_**

"So **that's** why you were about to re-fight the Battle of Brisbane on my behalf," Pentecost said, not quite a sigh, still not entirely sure how he felt about having the typical scripted course of events (however unpleasant) replaced by a situation for which he had neither model nor plan nor **any** sense of its direction. He did, however, know what response he ought to **make** , at least. "Thank you, by the by -- **did** I say that yet?"

But Hansen didn't even brush off his thanks, being too stunned by his invocation there.

"How d'you **know** about that? You're not Aussie **nor** American!?"

"Oh, there's a song about it -- a tune dedicated to it, at least. I looked up what I could find about it --"

"Your old man let you listen to the **Pogues?"**

"Not **exactly,"** and he couldn't help a hint of a wolfish smile at the memory, epic battles that could only end one way, but which by **_being fought_** were victory enough. (Even if it did mean all his pocket money going to replacement tapes.) "Not exactly **let** , no."

"Huh," the red-haired man's eyebrows arced to his hairline nearly. "Right-- Look, can I ask you somethin' -- and I don't know how to say this without bein' rude--"

**_Oh God, what now?_** But he nodded, once.

"At the ball game, that smarmy bastard from your outfit, I **forget** his name--"

"Hughes," Pentecost supplied tersely.

"Right, him -- **he** was tellin' the blokes from Goose Bay that he'd heard you were some kind of spook, and from the way he was sayin' it, it **sounded** like he meant you were Intel, but -- it **also** kind of sounded like he was makin' a racist joke...?"

**_Oh, Mr. Hughes, you're going to have some interesting conversations with some intimidating people in our organizations, for which you will have even less cause to remember me fondly!_ **

"Probably both," Pentecost sighed, "as you suspected. I don't **know** the man, but -- I know the **type**."

"So you **are** Intel?" Hansen pressed, his brow furrowing deeply.

"A lot of us admin types do Intel work of one kind or another, yes. They're **always** looking to foist busywork off on someone else," he shrugged, not looking away or fidgeting or any other typical sort of amateurish tell. "There's a **massive** amount of paperwork, ten times more than a squadron alone can generate, when it comes to tracking data streams."

The RAAF man nodded thoughtfully, his gaze gone distant. Then he snapped back to the here-and-now, and a spark -- a familiar, mischievous spark, by now -- came into his face.

"So, c'n I ask what you **do?"**

There was only one way this conversation was going to go, but Pentecost was determined otherwise.

"I'm not going to say it." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. " **No**. I'm **not going to say it** , I **_refuse."_**

"C'mon, you **have** to," Hansen said, his entire countenance trembling with the effort of keeping from breaking down under the strain.

"I **do not."**

" 'S **_tradition_ \--** You've **GOT** to say it!"

And before that reckless alien exuberance he gave in--

"I could **tell** you, but--" and then they both broke down in laughter so hard they could neither draw breath nor help crying, for several minutes.

**_"You,"_** Pentecost said warningly, shaking his finger and glaring across the table, to which the red-haired man cried "Tradition!" as he raised his hands outspread in defensive plea, before sobering up and leaning in close to ask quietly, "So -- this might be somethin' you **can't** answer, it's probably as much above **your** pay grade as it is mine, but -- d'you **have** any inside information if there's another blow-up coming, 'cos I keep hearin' rumours of a **_third front,_** an' then there's always noises about Resurgent Russia -- or the Big One startin' with China, instead?"

Pentecost thought about what he knew, and what he didn't know, and what he could say, and what he would say if he were allowed to, and said, **very** carefully, "As **far** as I **know** , the Yanks **aren't** going to start a new thing, because **that's** common sense. Then again..." and he paused for a moment, keeping his eyes level with his companion's, making sure he heard what was not being said, and gave a microscopic shrug.

Hansen let out his breath in a huge sigh.

"Well. Kind of what I already thought, but...you **_know_** how it gets. Rumours everywhere, especially with their **elections** coming up..."

Pentecost nodded. Before he could say anything else, one of the dancers reeled up to them, laughing back over her shoulder at her equally-giddy companions who had evidently dared her to it -- all of them wearing some incomprehensible fashion that could **only** be described as Cinderella transformed by the Witch of the West, dark and sparkly and involving striped tights for some reason -- and tugged at his host's wrist.

"Dance with me!" she commanded, stamping her foot and tossing her head, as though she were a villainess in a melodrama, or five years old, perhaps.

"Nah, sorry, wouldn't be fair to **you,"** Hansen said with a gentle regret that almost disguised the wickedness of his words-- "I'd be comparin' you to me **wife** the whole time, I'm afraid." Pouting, as if she were **much** younger than she looked, the girl turned to him and put her hands on her hips.

"Will **you** dance with me?"

He shook his head.

"It's **fun** !"

"For **you** , maybe." **_I, however have no intention of being anyone else's fun, tonight--_**

"Come on," she wheedled, " **everybody** can dance!"

"I can -- but I choose **not** to."

She scoffed at this, rolling her eyes beneath eyelashes heavy as batwings with jet spangles against cheeks made paler than the moon with what was, in the end, only very expensive chalk.

"Don't tell me a big strong soldier like you's too **shy** to dance!"

"Do **you** know how to foxtrot?" he asked, with a lifted brow, expecting nothing to come of his challenge. And at first it seemed he wouldn't be disappointed in this--

"Do I **look** old?" she demanded, her outrage half-mock, if that. Before he could give a diplomatic answer about "old souls" and flappers and the glamorous Twenties, a young man from the opposite booth -- one of several who'd been attracted by the minor commotion -- **_"I_** know how!"

That was the problem, throwing challenges around lightly -- you never knew **who** might choose to accept them...

"Really?"

Despite his skepticism, the lad got up with alacrity and demonstrated a couple of steps, enough to show that he was at least familiar and perhaps proficient -- and also wearing a **very** retro dress-shirt-and-waistcoat combination that he might have stolen off the set of _Jeeves & Wooster _ or the _Forsyte Saga_ \-- it was very strange, nobody here was **exactly** in fancy dress, let alone full costume ball array, but everyone here was wearing **just enough** out of the ordinary that from the corner of one's eye, all **appeared** to be taking part in some unreal masquerade.

**_This is what happens when you follow a fox-ghost into a barrow,_** that calm, quiet voice of Unreason reminded him, **_you should have expected it!_**

Well, if he were alive to see it, his only son dancing with strange men in taverns would send Major Pentecost, DCM (with Oak Leaves, and don't you forget it!) round the twist faster than any Irish rebel music **ever** had!

He stood up, straightened his tunic, and with a slight bow as though this were the Hoffburg, and not an ironically-named bar-and-or-nightclub in southern California, held out his right hand.

"Oh, but -- it's not really the right kind of music," said the youth, apparently having second thoughts on his own challenge-in-response being accepted.

"It's the right tempo," Pentecost said airily, "that's all that matters." The boy bit his lip.

"Well -- all right, if **you** lead -- but of course you will, you're an **officer!"** he replied with a wild-eyed grin, and followed him out onto the floor.

The need to keep track of the beats, and to steer them clear of anyone else dancing -- although most people soon stopped, and drew back to watch -- helped keep his mind free of any other considerations, such as **_What the hell am I doing? Why am I doing this? What, precisely, is this supposed to accomplish, and how?_** and also the fact that everyone had stopped to watch them -- but he didn't lose step, his partner didn't stumble, and after the first few taut turns about the floor, they both relaxed enough to concentrate on **dancing** , rather than **not screwing up at dancing,** and it became almost fun.

The reckless American at first could hardly look at him without a nervous, half-manic, half-embarrassed grin, but the need for concentration overran that quickly too, and he calmed down, slipping into the alert relaxation of the rhythm, counting quietly under his own breath but keeping his eyes ahead, trusting his guidance completely.

The song ended, in what seemed like both much more and much less than three or four minutes, and his partner let go of his hand and his shoulder with a whistle of breath and a half-dazed smile.

"That was -- amazing, thanks," the young man blurted out, and vanished.

"Will you dance with **me** ?" someone else asked, from the blur of faces ringing them. "I know how to foxtrot!"

**_In for a penny--_ **

And so he danced with all comers, proud old men with sad lined faces who reminded him of his grandfather, especially when they smiled and shook their heads at this madness, but danced quite as well as he, with silent girls who stared up at him from huge dark eyes, their cheeks and shoulders covered with glitter like a sudden frost, with tall young men who he suspected were **out** of uniform themselves, from their haircuts and stiff posture--

\--and with wickedly merry old women in bright flowing silks like the wings of parrots, who danced the old steps better than the old men, and still more willowy boys in attire oddly out-of-time, who stared up at him as silently as the girls, but with an open hunger in their looks that would have been disturbing if it were not for the sheen of tears in their eyes, and once with Javier, who vaulted -- **_yes!_** \-- the bar to seek his own turn, and yes, he **was** wearing pirate boots, or had stolen them from Lord Byron maybe--

"Do you know how to **waltz?"** a tall redhead asked him, but her smile was imperious, her manner a little too much of **_the empress commands her servant_** , and so he only replied, "I **do** \-- but I don't know **you** well enough for that, I'm afraid," with another little Viennese bow, and turned instead to a young woman in the spikes and ripped denim and combat boots of yore, who had been waiting with shy yearning, and now said in one breath, "Could you please **show** me how to do that fox one? It looks like fun!"

There wasn't any scientific reason that a neo-punk (but **punk** never died, did it?) and an officer of Her Majesty's armed forces should **not** dance together, even if it was just a slow and careful promenade as he went over the steps and simple variations with her, but he supposed objectively it made for a pretty strange picture!

But she was eager and all he could think was how his grandfather would have appreciated it, this pink-haired kid who looked like the teenagers denounced by the news (and his own son) when he was just a kid, the malcontents whom Thomas had only sighed at, and said they'd had a point or two -- here on another continent, learning a dance that was old when "We'll Meet Again" was a new song, just as **he'd** taught it to his grandchildren.

She zagged off to show her friends, and he wondered briefly what further transformations the foxtrot would undergo in the custody of young punks, like some glasshouse plant escaped and grown wild -- would it still be the same dance, only different? or a new species altogether? Perhaps the future wasn't **all** dreary and terrible--

Other partners presented themselves, some better, some worse, so that it was his task to keep them on the mark, and to make sure they didn't stumble (being taller than everyone else on the floor, man or woman, helped significantly in that regard!) and more of them **were** male, but only a slight majority were white -- there was a young Hindu couple who danced with him by turns, who could have walked right in from down by St. George's Hospital -- except that he hadn't seen anybody in London **yet** wearing chemical lights as jewellery (admittedly it wasn't likely in the social situations he found himself in, anywhere) and he kept getting moments of deja vu, thinking he'd spotted someone he knew from Hong Kong or Panama City, glimpses of faces familiar from Consulate-General or Embassy around the world, until he saw them directly--

His demi-consciousness helpfully pointed out that shape shifters and psychic beings were **frequently** said to take form from their victims' memories, and he told his over-active imagination to shut the hell up, this new song was complicated, the beat masked under syncopated harmonics--

It was and wasn't a game, the whole thing had started as a challenge and there was challenge throughout, what had **first** been a test to see if he would balk at dancing with another man quickly changed to a test to see if he was as good as his boasting, if he actually could foxtrot, or quickstep, to **anything** \-- but also, and growingly the most of it, to vie for his favour, to see if he would choose **them** \--

Part of it was curiosity, but there was something more, and growing -- a **fascination** , born of his presence as The Stranger amongst them, strange beyond all their reckoning: a foreigner but not a supplicant; an Englishman, but not white; an officer, but in a uniform few if any of them had seen in the fabric rather than film only; and now cavalierly displaying mastery an antiquated but not lost art, and half of that trickery, by keeping to the simplest figures of the simple early mode of the form, to make it easy for the less-experienced or more nervous to keep up without faltering, by relying on him to steer them.

(He does not realize, **cannot** realize -- for that is part of the spell, the crucial ingredient that keeps it alive, lack of self-consciousness -- that no small part of it is due to **his** engagement with them, that the more he pays them heed, while withholding his approval, the more they long **for** it -- because the more attention he gives them, the more alive **he** comes, and the air between them all crackles with tensions invisible but no less real, as actor and audience change place not once but breath by breath, the stakes rising with every pass of the field in this unspoken tourney...)

**_I am doing the diplomatic round today after all,_** he thought with an inward ironic laugh, **_not playing the fool for Whitehall, but standing in for Britannia all the same!_** Emissary from the Court of St. James, but not of the Windsors, no, not even George V -- the imagined courts of Ye Olde England, back to the Armada and before, their romantic fantasy here in Hollywood since there was first a film studio on the spot to capture a dream of manor houses and ivy-covered castles filled with gallantry and drama and British accents galore -- and ship them all back across the ocean to the unrecognisable land of their origins!

**_That's half of it,_** Pentecost thought, **_and the other half -- is danger, the inbuilt threat of the uniform, a danger made SAFE, tamed lightning -- but lightning nonetheless...because Death's the true allure there, not the gold braid and the bright colours, they were never it, that's how it's survived the days of khaki and serge -- letting them meet Death halfway, dare the borderland in safety--_**

But he could find no scorn, no contempt for anyone caught up in this sudden notion of his, of why "men in uniform" were granted a glamour, an exemption from normal rules of even adequacy, as talismans and symbols of ancient ritual in a society that prided itself on rationality and common sense, even in its Saturnalias--

Only pity, and a growing awareness that he had come here to do something more important than he realized, and that whatever angry impulse had moved him to wear his service dress, in defiance of regulation and current custom, it had been the **right** one, on more than one level.

It had taken some time, and enough circuits under the witchlights to be able to extend his perceptions past his partners and his immediate environs, and then back again, stabilized -- but he began to see that his presence **meant** something, that he was here **as** an officer, not an enlisted man, in a uniform that spoke of alliance after long and bitter rivalry -- and to dance equally, "without fear or favour, affection or ill will," with women and with men -- and that too might have **started** as an angry whim, but in the same vein was now **so** much more, here in this country where "don't ask, don't tell" was the rule of the land, and for any soldier of this nation to do here as he was doing now was to risk being **_told upon_** , and called to account for love, and forced to lie or to leave--

He was still angry, now, but it was a larger anger, more diffuse -- but no less fierce for that -- for all people made pawns, and lies that made games of lives for no purpose, and white-haired veterans forgotten by the armies that used them, and women told they could be together on condition they didn't ask to be treated or act like they **were** the same as any other couples on base, and boys who smiled as they cried, just at the **thought** that another man would take their hands, and not spit or sneer at them or worse, and girls who looked shocked that a man would hold them at arm's length in formal correctness, not grab them, that a dance could be only **fun** , that they could be **safe** and relax, for a little while--

It was worth the stress of the navigating and the number-keeping and the constant battle with the skin-crawling feeling of touching so many strangers, of having all their emotions and desires poured at him, while he wanted to cry, **_I'm only a symbol for you, of things YOU must win for yourselves, I can't fix anything in your country for you!_** Because, for however many minutes it lasted, they had **this** , at least--

And if he were being honest with himself, there was something heady, even **addictive** , in all this awe and desire and raw adulation -- too dangerous to try to live on, like pure oxygen, but while it lasted--!

His government might see him but as a useful tool, an empty symbol to win some empty game of symbols with rival Washington and Brussels -- but symbols are **dangerous** things to play with, charged and loaded and live no matter how old or new they may be, and **tonight** he was playing a game of his own, one whose rules he wasn't entirely sure of because **nobody** knew them, they changed as the pieces were in play--

**_And we ourselves, in play, CHANGE--_ **

His analyst's mind, far from being stifled under the atmosphere of confusion and alcohol and adrenaline and too many information streams, was arcing like a Tesla coil, reacting in ways that were none of his normal methodical patterns of thought, as though this low-budget ballroom were a vast orrery, as if the night sky reflected underfoot in waxed linoleum were the real thing, for a magus to read the cryptic forms of reality with effort--

(Part of what it was saying was, **_This place is not within the bounds of Nature_** , but he ignored **that** bit of signal as corrupted data.)

**_Oh, they can give me hell for 'conduct unbecoming' if they want, because we all know that's a fig leaf for whatever offences the old men choose not to care about, and a sieve fine enough to catch whoever of us small fry they like, at the same time it can let whole high-born pikes and sturgeons through!_ **

Because he knew the odds -- however slight -- were not zero that he'd been tailed here, nor that someone tonight might snap a photo of him and post it on Facebook or someplace, resulting in a call onto the proverbial carpet, and a scolding for doing something **not actually _illegal_** in either country, and not even **standing in** for illegal behaviour these days, in his own branch of the service.

And none of that would matter, **if** those in authority decided that his small defiance in wearing his uniform out on the town, as if it were 1944 instead of sixty years later, had brought **_disgrace_** upon it.

**_I don't actually CARE,_** and it was true, he was feeling **that reckless** \-- and having that much fun, **playing** this game...

And then one song ended and there was enough of a break that he realized he was getting tired, and thirsty, and overheated, and -- **not** the least important, not in the least! -- they were starting to act as though he were there for **their** convenience, not his own, and **that** was not a state he intended to allow come to pass.

"No, I'm afraid I've **neglected** my host long enough," he said, inflexibly, with just enough of an apologetic shading to his words that it wasn't an insult, and with a polite nod to the company in general, favouring none, he turned back to their booth -- to find that Hansen had apparently been staring, open-mouthed, the whole time.

His expression, as Pentecost took his seat, wavered between disbelief and hilarity, but all he said was, "I wouldn't have **guessed** it was **_possible_** to ballroom dance to Blue Oyster Cult or The Cure," and seemed like he wanted to say more, but couldn't think **what** or **_how_**.

"It's all numbers," Pentecost shrugged. "Just counting, staying on the mark. No different from **flying,"** he added, a little pointedly.

"Okay, but most of us don't fly formation -- at least not that range! **That** was real Red Arrows stunt pilot stuff, if you're talkin' flyin' now!"

"So long as the beat's steady, you can dance to it," he replied, for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight -- honestly, it really **was** all just maths!

Herc Hansen tried to reconfigure his perceptions, for about the tenth time so far this day, and gave up again.

"Look, I was wonderin'--" But his thread of concentration was abruptly broken by a sudden loud burst of extremely provocative music -- not dance music, either! Pentecost's eyebrows lifted as he looked instinctively up towards the loudspeakers.

**"Gawd** , I'm sorry. I **meant** what I said about trouble, I **didn't** expect--"

But his guest brushed it off.

"You don't think **I brought this** ?" gesturing with lifted brows to his wings. "Showing up wearin' **this** , in a Yank pub, and **stealing** \-- everyone's **everyone?** Besides, 's a **good song."** And he hummed along for a bar or two. Hansen stared at him, bewildered.

"You **know** it?"

"Wolfe Tones? Of **course** I know it. Sinead O'Connor's version's more **lyrical** , but **not** so good for a sing-along."

And he began to sing -- **not** hum, but **sing** , loud enough to be heard past their table, right along:

_'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky  
      _than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar!__

**_We're going to get thrown out,_ ** thought Herc Hansen, **_and I don't know what to do, but I can't bail now, I got us into this_ \--** and it made him sad, because he loved this place, but hospitality was a duty --

**_PLEASE don't go making this worse,_** he begged, but silently, because he felt it would be a sort of betrayal, to undercut his guest now. It was like watching the proverbial train wreck in slow motion -- while you were **on** it!

_And from the plains of Royal Meath  
     _strong men came hurrying through,  
     _When Britannia's Huns with their great big guns  
     _sailed in through the foggy dew!____

And there Pentecost stopped, and solemnly raised his glass emphatically high, with a solemn inclination of his head, before finishing off his beer an equally solemn toast, while the DJs' scowls went from indignant to bewildered themselves.

" 'Perfidious Albion' has quite a ring to it, don't you think?" he added, conversationally.

**"You're** not supposed to **say** that," Hansen replied, his mind otherwise a blank.

"Why **not?** I have it on good authority that one's allowed to say **anything** , in America." And he gave him a wicked grin, so fast it almost wasn't there. Hansen quietly picked up the scattered bits and pieces of his thoughts and shoved them back into some sort of organization.

"Can I **get** us another round?" he asked, a bit desperately, and at Pentecost's nod he took their empty glasses back to the counter and the opportunity to compose himself, wondering the while **what** he had gotten himself into and if it really was a better thing than punching someone and getting thrown in the lockup overnight.

**_Well yeah -- but this is scarier..._ **

The bartenders tried not to catch his eye and he tried not to catch theirs, waiting for their draughts, and the huddled sound guys were too far off for eye contact.

**_I should go over and ask them to knock it off,_** he thought, and then he thought that might push them to try something worse, and wondered if he should just pay their tab and find someplace less liable to chaotic influences.

**_Never thought you'd be the one gettin' stared at here, did you? Though it's not you, except as the one that threw the match!_ **

**_Oh hell, you only live once!_** and when he returned to their booth the English officer had two cell phones out on the table and was messing about with their SIM cards.

"Stupid, how they can't make coms that will work **anywhere** without requiring surgery on them," he remarked, as if nothing at all untoward had happened in the last quarter hour. "You'd think 'convenience' was just a **marketing tool** \-- at least **I** don't find this any easier than making a trunk call the old-fashioned way."

"Why've you got **_two?"_**

"Better chance of not wrecking **either."**

Over at the sound engineers' console there were mutterings and whispers and funny looks shot in both their directions, but nobody came over, nobody said anything, and when this song ended they returned to indy rock -- having concluded, it seemed, that **this** bit of psychological warfare wasn't working and there was probably no way they could come out of further escalation with any sort of glory, or even advantage.

"There. **No** reception."

"Wait, you're **not** tryin' to get calls here?"

"Got it in one," the other man said, very blandly. Then it clicked.

**"You** just **_fucked up your own radio_** , so you can't receive new orders!?"

"More that any...bawling-out be **postponed** till daylight," he shrugged. "I don't **expect** to hear from anyone -- but the night's still young. Figured I'd take some precautions."

"You **could've** just turned it off, that's what I did with **mine."**

"No. I want to be able to say that my phone wasn't working, **and** it be the **truth."**

"Huh." This was a bit torturous for him, but apparently made sense to the RAF man.

Herc Hansen struggled with a sense that the world had gotten out of alignment, somehow, that he'd gotten partway into an alternate dimension, one that was half the original one, the one where he was simultaneously at the familiar watering hole that Angela had first taken him to when she'd brought him home to meet her family and told everyone that the first person to make a Vegemite joke would feel her wrath, whereupon someone had promptly gone dashing off to a supermarket to find a jar of it, which was probably still out in the kitchen somewhere, unopened--

\--and the other in some dimension where the ghosts of WWII pilots from England training over at War Eagle Field were still visiting their old haunts in town, as if the city were unchanged -- or perhaps it was **still** 1940 on that plane, and yes this was totally impossible, unbelievable and ridiculous, but what he'd just **seen** was totally impossible, unbelievable and terrifying -- but then no RAF officer from sixty-some years ago would know what a cell phone was, let alone how to sabotage it, right?

**_Unless it was also one of those dimensions where they HAD all the tech that was in the pulps, in which case then maybe?_ **

**_No, that won't work, it wouldn't be the same BRANDS as us, on this dimension--_ **

**_Time traveller, THAT could be it -- convenient how they haven't changed their uniforms in almost a hundred bloody years!_ **

And then he decided that he'd spent **way** too many hours as a kid reading comic books, and needed to stop woolgathering and be properly social -- instead of trying to reconcile his first impression of an utterly humourless wowser (as the repulsive Hughes had claimed down his end of the row, along with the rumour that he was some kind of intel hack and not **just** another admin officer) for whom he'd felt badly at first and **then** utterly overwhelmed by the force of his personality when this Pentecost had wheeled him about-face and marched him off the field in a tactical retreat, with the man who'd just done something **impossible** with the most arrogant panache he'd **ever** seen -- and he'd seen some hotshot pilots pull some insane stunts in the past! only to shrug it off without a second thought.

**_Who the hell ARE you, Stacker Pentecost? And what are you DOING in this town?_ **

He kept focusing on stories of timeslips and _Twilight Zone_ -ish crossed-over aviators from other eras and alternate universes, because he was trying to avoid thinking too hard about all the **other** sort of stories there were, of people meeting mysterious strangers in crowded places or busy streets or at the crossroads, and keeping them company for a while...

That sort of fanciful nonsense had absolutely no place in the 21st century, but then -- how did Pentecost even **know** about the Battle of Brisbane, really? He couldn't have learnt it all from some cassette's liner notes -- it wasn't like **that** one was even in any old dry squadron histories in dusty libraries! If he'd been **American** that would be one thing, could have heard it first-hand, but there wasn't even much mention of online though it had long been declassified...

The way he towered over them all, spinning them effortlessly and with that same cool, remote not-quite smile, between the lights and through the shadows to "Last Day of Summer" and "Don't Fear the Reaper" -- not to mention "Bailamos" with its flamenco complexities! -- left him stuck between a shudder and inarticulately-admiring profanity, and wondering yet again what he'd **really** gotten himself into, with his thoughtless invitation.

(If only he'd known either that no cell phone photos taken that night would come out -- not that they ever usually did at The First Circle because of the dim and contrasting lights and the undeveloped sensor technology of the time -- or that his guest had only the most superficial acquaintance with any of the songs of this impromptu and unconventional ceilidh!)

At least it was almost time for the main reason he'd come here...

Satisfied that his phones were both firstly, non-functioning, and secondly, easily repairable, Pentecost put them both away and looked up to notice that they were moving the movable tables yet again, and more lights had been turned on where there was a sort of low stage for live bands, he'd assumed -- but apparently no, the threat of karaoke had been a real one and not a joke all along.

(Off in one corner, ignoring everything, the pink-haired punk child was teaching Cinderella-the-Witch to foxtrot, in their own private Fasching, and it was beautiful.)

"So," the red-haired pilot said, glancing over at the stage, where setting-up was in progress, of various sorts of audio and video equipment. "Sure you don't want to put your name down for a turn? 'S great fun."

**_He's serious. Bloody hell, he's SERIOUS--_ **

"I **don't do** karaoke."

"Well, okay, but is that like, you don't get a **chance** to do karaoke? Or you've **never** done it before? 'Cos I know you sing, I just **heard** you --it's the same as singin' along with the radio, really! There's words an' everything, too."

"It's **something I don't do,"** Pentecost said, again, slowly and clearly, hoping it would be sufficient.

"Fair enough," Hansen said, giving him a slightly troubled glance. "You **don't** mind if I do, do you?"

"Why should I?" and the other man shrugged, having no idea why he wouldn't want to stand up in front of strangers and try to sing songs he didn't know, in front of strangers, because why **wouldn't** anybody want to do that? or so the Australian obviously felt -- and would have to go on wondering!

There was no way he was going to admit that he didn't know **any** of the words to **any** of the songs, aside from the snippets and stray words you picked up in shopping centres over the store loudspeakers, by osmosis.

When Hansen got up to the stage, the MC welcomed him warmly, and introduced him as, "Our old friend Herc Hansen, back from Australia for another **flying** visit!" Some of the people in the place seemed to know him, or at least went along for the ride -- at least there were lots of cheers and some cries of, "Australia! **Australia!** **_Woooooo!"_**

"Waltzing Matilda!" someone shouted, and he waved them off with a laugh, but others took up the cry, "Do Waltzing Matilda, **_Waltzing Matilda!"_** but he only laughed. "Alright, you want somethin' **Australian,"** shaking his head, and punched something up that turned out to be something often played at shops.

_Out from the ruins,_  
     _out from the wreckage--_  
      _can't make the same mistake this time!_

There were some jeers & groans, but they were cheerful ones, and by the time he'd reached the rousing declamation of the refrain there was a chorus backing him, and when he finished there was a lot of applause, as he came back to their booth with just a hint of swagger and a lot of smile.

"How'd I do?" he asked, taking a swig of his ale.

"All right, I guess," Pentecost replied politely, getting an almost comically wounded look of affront.

"You **guess?** That bad, eh?"

"I -- it sounded in tune," he added hastily, tying to extricate himself diplomatically, and then wrongfooting it again by explaining, "I --'m not **familiar** with the song." Hansen's eyebrows rose, but he didn't say anything disbelieving or contemptuous.

**_I should spend some time online, familiarizing myself with contemporary pop music,_** Pentecost decided, **_in case something like this happens again._** In Washington, he'd always been able to avoid social friction in this vein, because of the more formal settings, or by dint of remaining severely on-point, no matter how conversations drifted around. (Granted, his sister and her partner sometimes chided, or teased him, about his obliviousness to "pop trash" and tried to educate him in that regard before giving it up as a lost cause, but that was different.)

Then he thought about all the other American Hughses in those diplomatic circles, and decided that it wasn't **worth** trying to fit in, it wasn't necessary for his work **and** he had more important things to devote his attention to!

But other people were singing, now, and some of them had quite good vocal range, and the tunes weren't all bad, either. (Some he recognized as ones that had played earlier, while they were dancing, as well.) Some of the words were rather sharply pointed, too -- it was different, hearing them sung live, by amateurs, even struggling ones, but with enthusiasm, far different to hearing them over a blurry radio station:

_Yeah, I know nobody knows_  
     _where it comes and where it goes--_  
     _I know it's everybody's sin,_  
     _you got to lose to know how to win!_

"Mind if I go round again?" The Australian pilot was fidgeting, a competitive gleam coming into his eyes as others took their turns.

"Why would I?" And Hansen bounded up with an eager smile, as if the chance to make a complete fool of himself in public were to be greeted with open arms, not **avoided** at all costs.

Then again, he really **wasn't** bad--

Once again he brushed off the bystanders' cries of "Waltzing Matilda!" (and a few of "Land Down Under!") now with an eerie little ditty, melancholy-minor and with a harpsichord-like accompaniment that, aside from the localized geographical references, wouldn't have been out of place three centuries ago:

_All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray,_  
     _I've been for a walk on a winter's day--_  
     _I'd be safe and warm if I was in LA!_  
     _California dreamin' on such a winter's day!_

Or even across the ocean, and a thousand years ago, at that--

**_This is the twenty-first century, this is the United States of America, there are no such things as fox-spirits really and they DON'T wander about pretending to be Australian airmen. Or they wouldn't, IF they existed!_ **

The music, and the banter of the MC and the crowd, continued, and some of it was really quite terrible, but the audience was kind to them, and kindest of all to the worst strugglers, which seemed to have the opposite effect, of encouraging them to do their best instead of staying in their faltering rut -- because lack of confidence made even a singer in tune sound terrible, and a song badly belted out at least carried its own brash charm.

Most of them were sentimental drivel, but then there were the ones that **weren't,** and the unusual circumstances were making them **_catch,_** as if he were on duty, instead of (supposedly) relaxing in a pub. (But in his line of work, one never really was **_off duty,_** was one?)

_I've climbed the mountains of the sky,_  
     _Without my wings you know I'd surely die--_  
     _I found my freedom flyin' high,_  
     _I've climbed the mountains of the sky..._

Who would think that a rock song would convey the aviators' ancient temptation with such clarity?

"My turn, my turn!" his companion called loudly from beside him, and seemed to be willing to oblige the "Waltzing Matilda" crowd this time, by his ingenuous smile.

Instead he began one that Pentecost had heard in shops and concourses, more than once:

_On a dark desert highway_  
     _cool wind in my hair,_  
     _warm smell of colitas_  
     _rising up through the air,_  
     _up ahead in the distance_  
     _I saw a shimmering light--_  
     _My head grew heavy_  
     _and my sight grew dim_  
     _I had to stop for the night--_  
     _There she stood in the doorway,_  
     _I heard the mission bell,_  
     _and I was thinking to myself_  
     _this could be Heaven_  
     _or this could be Hell--_

And Pentecost realized that his new companion was **taunting** them, and **they** were enjoying it, it was a game where **both** were winning -- and that Hansen had a playful, mischievous side that he didn't dare reveal among his own messmates, right **along** with that intense idealism and fierce justice in his soul.

**_I've never met anyone like this,_** he thought, and felt deeply sad about that. **_We're all so earnest, but we don't dare to laugh like this--_**

**_The stakes are too high, for all of us..._ **

And then it occurred to him that the other man trusted **him** enough to show it before him as well -- and that that meant as much or even more, as all the confidences they'd perhaps rashly shared at the start of the evening.

**_Unless I'm completely wrong, and just being drawn out_** \-- and then decided that this was a level of paranoia too far. Logically, he could build a set of reasons why it was unlikely that all this was some elaborate charade to win his confidence, and so indiscretion, and then humiliate him with it. But the truth of it was, he had **known** , without ever being able to explain it, since Hansen had stepped to flank him defensively -- and then stepped **back** , at his word.

To his surprise, the next time the red-haired man claimed the stage, it was a tune he himself knew, though he hadn't heard it since his grandparents were alive, a comic song with an oddly-serious undertone, in a **_very_** retro style:

_Istanbul was Constantinople,_  
     _now it's **Istanbul** , not Constantinople,_  
     _been a long time gone, Constantinople--_  
     _now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night!_

_Every gal in Constantinople_  
     _lives in **Istanbul** , not Constantinople!_  
     _So if you've a date in Constantinople,_  
     _she'll be waitin' in Istanbul!_

_Even old New York_  
     _was once New Amsterdam--_  
     _why they changed it,_  
     _I can't say--_  
     _People just liked it_  
     _**better** that way!_

_So take me back to Constantinople!_  
     _No, you **can't** go back to Constantinople--_  
     __Been a long time gone, Constantinople!__

(Many years later, Jaeger pilots under his command will repeat these verses **endlessly** during Conn-Pod drill, in the voices of talking rats and a James Bond. There may be worse torments that the damned suffer for their sins, but he will be hard pressed to come up with any at the time.)

_Why did Constantinople get the works?_  
     _That's nobody's business but the Turks!_

"I didn't **know** you could pick oldies at places like this," he said, after, wondering if it had been his own reaction to the provocation of "Foggy Dew" that had prompted this, some free association with the "Sands of Suvla" there, or something else entirely...

**_"Oldies?_** They Might Be Giants is eighties, nineties," the other man said, looking confused.

"I don't know who **that** is," Pentecost retorted with a bit of unplanned honesty, "but **that** song was **first** recorded back in the nineteen-fifties by a **Canadian** group -- my grandparents had the single. Hold on, it'll come to me--" He thought of the old threadbare overstuffed armchair and the little table with the Victrola, in their tiny flat, and going through the racks of records, careful not to tip them so their paper sleeves slid out of the pasteboard cases letting them fall to destruction. "The Four Lads, **that** was it."

Hansen raised his eyebrows in what might be polite disbelief, but he didn't argue -- only said, "Well, if you **know** that one, you could sing it too...?"

"Aren't there **rules** against repeating songs?" Pentecost had no idea if there were or not, but it sounded like a good idea, and a possible excuse.

"Eh, some rules are what you might say, **elastic**. I think you could get away with that, just once. Or we could do it together?" He sounded so hopeful, that Pentecost was immediately wary, and **also** felt a pang at disappointing him, as impossibly contradictory as that seemed.

"I told you. I **don't _do_** karaoke."

"Alright. Want another beer?"

"I'd **rather** have a coffee, if they've **got** it." He'd learned long ago to **never** order tea in this country -- it was just too much of a risk.

"Full bar, they got **anything**. What you want in it?"

"Cream and sugar, thanks."

"Nothin' else? They got **everything** back there."

"Hm -- **_coffee?"_**

That got him a **very** odd look, as though Hansen were having trouble with his binocular vision, and couldn't quite focus his eyes. But he only nodded and went off, his eyebrows confused.

When he came back, with the steaming mug, in a heavy ceramic that was much more like an American diner than something that a drinking establishment would dare to pass around, he remarked, "You know, we didn't actually **get** anything to eat," and Pentecost realized he was right, that they'd been going on sheer adrenaline all afternoon, plus whatever nourishment was in beer, and the evening was wearing on.

"American pub food's always **horrible** , in my experience," he said, shaking his head. "Messy, bitter, half-raw and half-burnt, and **that's** some sort of local **specialty** if you can believe it. And that's **before** you get to the sauces that taste like somebody once **heard** what tandoori was, forgot most of it, and threw in whatever came to hand instead. Mainly mustard, sometimes ketchup, and **other times --** anybody's guess."

"Are you talkin' about **_buffalo wings?"_**

"Those, **and** other vile, soggy things all covered with **hot sauce,** to camouflage their **lack** of anything **else."** He regretted the outburst, waited for the inevitable jeers at an Englishman criticizing anybody else's cooking, as if Yanks knew a damn **thing** about the British Isles -- but Hansen wasn't an American, either.

"Well, yeah, most places do **terrible** nachos but, if you're **hungry** \--"

It was a night for honesty, and so he was.

"I would have to be several **days** hungrier, to eat any of **that**. I'd rather have something **cold** out of a **tin**. I've **had** better things out of Cold War Era **ration packs**. I'm **not joking**." But the other lifted a placating hand.

"I was **goin'** to say, they have a **really decent kitchen**. You can get **gourmet** quality here -- **or** plain old fish-n-chips, **with** malt vinegar, even, and it's **better** than edible. -- **_Honest."_**

"Order what you like," Pentecost shrugged again. "If it's not edible, I won't **have** any." Again the Australian gave him that odd, head-tilted sidelong look, as if he were some sort of mirage he were trying to read the truth of.

"Fair enough," and he went off to the bar again.

He wondered if Hansen was going and coming in order to try to avoid having to pay extra -- but then realized that was nonsense, he was **welcomed** here, and must know it didn't work that way! Watching him at the counter, it did seem as though he simply didn't want to trouble the staff, and also that he enjoyed chatting with them, as they did with him.

He came back, in surprisingly short time, with a big tray of odds and ends -- little squares of spanakopita, miniature samosas, slices of garlic bread with fresh tomatoes and pesto, tiny whole potatoes in their jackets with rosemary, marinated portabello mushrooms -- nothing like ordinary American bar food, just as he'd promised. It was the kind of thing that would cost a fortune in a trendy Georgetown restaurant, and once again Pentecost felt profound gratitude to his self-appointed guide and guard.

"Chips'll be along in a flash, **everyone's** gettin' 'em so they ran out." He dug in, happily, making sure to scrupulously divide everything -- "Lemme know, if you **hate** anything, okay?" -- but kept humming along, in between bites, and once quietly accompanying someone else's rendition of a song that was evidently a crowd favourite:

_Now everybody's got advice they just keep on givin'--_  
     _Doesn't mean too much to me!_  
     _Lots of people out to make believe they're livin'--_  
     _Can't decide who they should be!_

_I understand about indecision,_  
     _But I don't care if I get behind--_  
     _People livin' in competition--_  
     _All I want is to have some peace of mind!_

"Do you know **all** the words to every American rock song?"

"Mm-hm," Hansen replied with a manic grin, "plus every English one, plus the bands back home -- I just know **_all the music,_** **all** of it, that's all."

"Huh," said Pentecost, and wondered how many drinks the Australian had had, really.

**_That's not a human trait,_** his demi-conscious wickedly pointed out, **_but it IS a thing of the Sidhe, and the fox-folk..._**

**_Shut up,_** he told it again, in echo of Luna's voice whenever he got ahead of himself. Their chips arrived, and they were indeed better than edible, and the bottle that came with it was proper Sarson's, of all things.

**"See?"** But it was a pleased-at-pleasing tone, not a contemptuous one, and he could hardly begrudge his host his triumph. "He likes the tapas, too," Hansen assured the waitress who brought them -- who shouted **_"Yes!"_** and high-fived the Australian back, then gestured to the counter with an extravagant double-thumbs-up signal, as though they'd won some sort of contest by gaining his approval.

**_This is a very eccentric establishment,_** Pentecost thought, bewildered and still not certain, deep down, that this **wasn't** some sort of elaborate joke on him.

At least it wasn't as much of a joke as the next one his companion pulled on the karaoke enthusiasts -- he'd gone up and flipped through the catalogue at one point, but the heckling for "Waltzing Matilda" just kept getting louder so he sighed and handed the mike back to the MC, with a muttered complaint that caused the other man -- who, apparently, was the ex-firefighter side of the owners' partnership -- to do a bit of a double take, and then he stomped back, flinging himself into the booth with a grumpy look and a sigh of disgust.

"Sorry about that," Pentecost said, appalled. "Don't they realize how inappropriate that is?"

But Hansen gave him a sly, covert smile.

"Ah, we do this every time," he shook his head, his eyes crinkling. "It's a game -- but the lads changed it up a bit tonight, so **I'm** changin' it up some more."

He ordered another round of beer for himself, and this time Pentecost decided to have another himself, letting Hansen choose, and it was good, it really was, though it was some small local brand he'd never heard of -- who knew that old-fashioned brewing was coming back in America? **That** was going to be a bit of a trump card, dealing with his colleagues at the Embassy, that one didn't **need** to stick to Guinness to be safe any more! Clearly further research would be required, which amused the RAAF man no end.

"See, **usually** when we come here, **I** do California 'n Hollywood songs and my wife does in excess and men at work--" and eventually Pentecost worked out that these were band names, or possibly songs, as the flow of what felt like **code** , (or nonsense, take your pick!) flowed steadily over him, and how could he be getting **more** signal overload from a single conversation stream **in English** with a fellow Commonwealth officer, than he did in the concourse of Victoria or Termini in the morning crush, or at the Paris Air Show for all the days of the event?

**_Something is off, something is very off here_** \-- but he couldn't figure out what, and before he could nail it down, Hansen was up again with some idea that made him cackle, actually crow out loud in anticipation -- and everybody **else** groan, both the regulars and those who were just following along in the spirit of things (because **everybody** here couldn't know him, could they? It seemed statistically unlikely.)

He didn't understand it -- the tune was simple but the harmonization and percussion were strong, as rock songs went it was rather lyrical and melodic, and while the poetry was somewhat obvious and heart-on-sleeve in its passion, it didn't seem any more so than so many other songs that had been sung so far -- a little **political** , but then others were, too...

_Two worlds collide--_  
     _Rival nations--_  
     _It's a primitive clash,_  
     _Venting years of frustrations--_  
     _Bravely we hope_  
     _Against all hope,_  
     _There is so much at stake--_  
     _Seems our freedom's up_  
     _Against the ropes!_  
     _Does the crowd understand?_  
     _Is it East versus West?_  
     _Or man against man?_  
     _Can any nation stand alone?_

**Something _else_** was going on here, but **what** , he had no idea -- and he'd disabled his cell phone, so he couldn't even use the extremely sluggish and inconvenient web search on it to try to figure it out.

_In the darkest night_  
     _Rising like a spire,_  
     _In the burning heart_  
     _The unmistakable fire!_

They did applaud, though, despite the groaning, so either it was an old in-joke here, or it **was** political, or maybe it was something else entirely. Disgusted with his lack of control over the situation, Pentecost also noticed that his headache was threatening to return, and **tried** to stop picking everything apart, to just be an **audience** for a while.

At least he was able to give his unconditional approval to how Hansen had performed it, which got him in turn another one of those odd, trying-to-focus looks, as though the other man suspected him of mockery, himself.

**_I give up -- this place follows NO logic but its own!_ **

Four young men eventually got up after much mutual urging and sang some sort of revolutionary march, in a rather mannered and operatic way, but **it** was a well-loved song, by everyone's reactions, and they hadn't done a bad job of it either. It seemed to inspire his companion, who stood up, shook his head and marched up to the stage as if on the parade ground.

That only worked up the crowd even more, so that some of them were stamping their feet as they shouted, as if they were at a football match -- and when they quieted down at last, he flung up his hands in surrender.

"You want 'Waltzing Matilda,' you **really** do? You **sure** about that? You don't want R.E.M.? Not Metallica? No 'Whiskey in the Jar' t'night? You really, truly, **no** jokin' around, want **_'Waltzing Matilda' ?"_** The raucous cheers and whistles insisted that, yes, they truly did. "Alright, alright -- **hit it** , Gary," and he settled back on his heels with a sigh.

When the familiar chords of The Pogues -- not a karaoke cover, the actual recording, without any words somehow -- started up, Pentecost's heart did a skip, even before Hansen roared out the opening words,

_When I was a young man I carried my pack_  
     _And I lived the free life of a rover!_  
     _From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback_  
     _I waltzed my Matilda all over!_

**_Well. DAMN._ **

_Then in nineteen-fifteen my country said, "Son,_  
     _It's time to stop rambling 'cos there's work to be done!"_  
     _So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun,_  
     _And they sent me away to the war!_

_And the band played Waltzing Matilda,_  
     _As we sailed away from the quay,_  
     _And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers_  
     _We sailed off to Gallipoli!_

He wondered if they'd let him get through the whole thing, but this was, as Hansen had said, rather a different kind of place --there wasn't **any** heckling and people actually **listened** , and some few of them knew it (sort of) and sang along, if patchily, through all the many verses.

_But the band played Waltzing Matilda_  
     _As we stopped to bury our slain,_  
     _We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs,_  
     _Then we started all over again!_

_Now those that were left, well, we tried to survive_  
     _In a mad world of blood, death and fire_  
     _And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive_  
     _But around me the corpses piled higher--_

**_This is NOT a man to start trouble with,_** Pentecost thought -- and then reconsidered what that phrase might mean, and thought instead -- **_Or EXACTLY the man to go start some trouble with, if you want to be the ones who END it!_**

_Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,_  
     _Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?_  
     _And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong--_  
     _Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?_

There was some scattered clapping, but more shivers and sighs among the audience, as the Australian gave them all a brow-lifted nod and yielded the stage, returning calmly to their table.

"That **wasn't** necessary," he said, because it was necessary to let the other man know how much he appreciated -- **and** understood.

"Oh, it was," Hansen said with a grin, and a bit of that dangerous edge he'd let loose at the other place, but with far more of simple joy in it. "It truly **was,"** and he picked up his glass and clinked it against his.

**_Fealty. I've been given FEALTY, just like in the books, and -- I don't know what to DO with it._  
 _Except -- treasure it, I guess!_ **

**_And repay it,_** with a pensive frown. But how? What, exactly, could he offer, that wouldn't **demean** the gift by a poorly-done folly? And was there even **time** , anyway? There were packing-up motions going on around, the crowd was beginning to stir and when he checked the time it was well after one.

Which gave him an idea.

"Last call, is it? I **do** know one tune that fits that bill," he remarked, with an ease he didn't feel at all. Before the other man could say anything to question him and jostle his resolve, he got to his feet and approached the little dais, shaking his head when the MC asked him what tune to call up.

"I doubt you'll have it. --It's all right, 's **usually** sung unaccompanied," and he stepped up, wondering if this was what it was like being in a Voluntary Band, or if it ever got to be routine at some point.

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Hey! It's **not** open mike night!" and he started to hand the microphone back -- **no** games with hecklers tonight, not for **him** that path, to take or leave, **their** choice -- but their neighbours quickly shushed them and the calls and whistles to continue drowned any dissenters right out.

**_Oh yeah, it was so on, so VERY on_** \-- he'd thrown them the gauntlet, and then another one, and now there was no keeping track of the challenges thrown tonight -- the crowd that cheers your triumph will be just as happy to see you hanged! -- but somehow under it all he had the feeling that they still **didn't** want to see him fail, they wanted to see him **fly--**

He took a deep breath, and started to wonder if he'd made the worst of many mistakes of his life, but too late for anything but take-off now!

_Oh, of all the money that ever I had_  
     _I've spent it in good company,_  
     _And all the harm that ever I've done_  
     _Alas it was to none but me--_

Boastful words, but then, this whole evening had been **one** boast after another, and at least the words were truer **tonight** than they'd ever been when sung by a bunch of tearful semi-strangers to each other, full of sentiment and alcohol -- both of which would evaporate as quickly under daylight--

_And all I've done for want of wit,_  
     _To memory now I can't recall!_  
     _So fill to me the parting glass--_  
     _Good night, and joy be with you all!_

You could have heard a feather drop, in the silence thereafter, and he didn't know if he'd made some terrible protocol faux pas, or something worse. But stopping **now** would be worse yet--

_Of all the comrades that ever I've had,_  
     _They're sorry for my goin' away,_  
     _And of all the sweethearts that ever I've had,_  
     _They would wish me one more day to stay!_  
     _But since it falls unto my lot,_  
     _That I should rise and you should not,_  
     _I'll gently rise, and softly call--_  
     _Good night, and joy be with you all!_

And **this** time, people joined in on the refrain, a few here and there, mostly older, but not all.

_A man may drink, and not be drunk_  
     _A man may be fight, and not be slain,_  
     _A man may court a pretty lass,_  
     _And perhaps be welcome back again!_  
     _But since it has so ordered been,_  
     _By a time to rise and a time to fall,_  
     _Come to fill to me the parting glass--_  
     _Good night, and joy be with you all--_  
     _Good night, and joy be with you all!_

When he finished there was silence again, for as long as three or four heartbeats, depending on how fast one's pulse, and then the clapping started, and grew, and the crowd **_roared,_** and gave him a standing ovation -- the ones who already were on their feet, climbing onto tables and chairs to make their point.

For an instant he thought that this was some particularly elegantly cruel form of mockery, and then he looked at them, at their faces, and saw that **many** had tears, now, particularly among the older white patrons, and understood that he truly had won them, and didn't know what to do.

Almost upon reflex, he bowed, not the low bow of a musician or conductor, but a deep one nonetheless, the full saikeirei, because they had done him a greater honour than they ever knew, or could know, and he could do them no less.

But the sense of exhilaration, that he had **won** them, all of them, at once and not even singly -- the sense that they would in this moment, at least, do **whatever he asked of them** , even if it was to burn the city, to storm its high places! -- even if it **was** only the effects of alcohol and proximity, adrenaline and emotion: for this instant they were **his** , mind and matter, and **_that_** was the truly terrifying thing, the most momentous and frightening thing that had ever happened in his career, **much** worse than an engine conking out over water--

**_I can DO this, if I put my mind to it -- but what can I do_** **WITH it? Where could I lead ANYONE, besides destruction?** What good was any power, with no purpose and no place for it?

When he handed back the microphone the MC said with a hint of puzzlement, "By the way, you **didn't have** to do it without backup. We could have stripped the vocals out on the computer for you, that's what your friend did for **his** last number there."

"Sorry, I'm not **familiar** with any recordings of it. Learned it around the station in Scotland."

The American gave a silent **_ah_** of understanding, looking at him with a bit of sidelong, hard-to-read curiosity.

"You don't **know** what you did there, do you?"

"I **thought** I did," Pentecost said, with a lifted brow, "I thought I covered a Scots **pub** song -- but I guess there was **more** to it than that."

"Here? Yeah, it's -- it's one of those old Irish classics, everybody's grandparents had some Makem and Clancy Brothers vinyl growing up, it...well, let's just say you gave a **lot of people one** **_hell_ of a nostalgia trip** , doing that one." From his expression, this wasn't a **bad** thing, but it was a lot more **real** than karaoke night was supposed to be, ordinarily -- the veil of irony had been pulled back for a moment, and caught them **all** unawares.

**_I can't apologize, since that WAS my aim -- I only scored a luckier hit than I knew!_ **

"But that **wasn't** what I meant. I know Sean and Gary were messin' with you earlier, and I was **about** to shut them down before you **_took care of_** it -- but I figured you for **payback time."**

He sniffed a bit himself, rubbed his nose, and shook his head.

"We weren't **expecting** a **_gift_** like that."

Carefully, Pentecost said -- instead of asking, **_Did you truly think I was going to break into 'Rule Britannia'? -_** \- "I'd rather be disliked for something I **chose** to do, than had **no** choice in whatsoever."

"Yeah, well," the bar's co-owner answered with a tight smile, " **whatever** uniform you wear, you're welcome here. Round on the house, you and your guests, any time."

(But by the time he wears another uniform, this place, as with so much of this city, will no longer exist, outside of memories.)

At that moment Herc Hansen came up, with both his bags, and his cap, and refused to relinquish the luggage, insisting it was no problem at all.

"Did you call for a cab?"

"Nah, I found us a lift," he nodded towards the street, "some students got a van, they dun mind goin' out of the way a bit."

"Students? Are they **_sober?"_**

**"Driver** is -- Muslim, he don't drink, it'll be fine. He was **Enjolras** , remember?"

"Was **_what?"_**

"The lads who were doin' Les Mis? Them? **There** they are, c'mon!"

"Oh." **_I've heard of that, it's a musical -- but NOT one of Andrew Lloyd Webber's-- I think._** But of course he didn't say any of that... **_Ah, that revolutionary song -- of course!_**

Outside on the pavement, many of the patrons were still hanging about and talking or horsing around -- but it was all very light-hearted and there was none of the liable-to-flash-to-anger that after hours outside pub congregations so often carried with them. Some of the younger ones were still dancing, trying to foxtrot with each other, or other traditional steps half-remembered, arguing about the right way to Charleston and tumbling about like kittens, or springing up onto the bollards and breaking into snatches of song--

The ride home took nearly an hour, because the lads with the van were giving as many people rides as wanted, since they owned -- or had access to, at least -- a huge, ancient Volkswagen Kombi -- which had its own theme song apparently -- given that all the passengers spontaneously broke into the same raucous refrain about a restaurant when they sighted it (not missing Hansen, naturally!)

Crammed in with almost a dozen strangers, three different languages being spoken at once **not** including dialects of English, jammed shoulder to shoulder with a mad music fiend who was giving his expert opinion on the best routes around LA to the **very** pale, very blond, very blue-eyed, very **American** \- **sounding** youth who'd turned out to be named Edin and not Enjolras, who just nodded and smiled and kept driving whichever route he'd already chosen -- the revolutionary reenactors and their friends all thought it was a great joke on the LAPD and the US authorities as a whole, that Edin never, **ever** got pulled over, and said so -- Stacker Pentecost was feeling happier and more alive than he'd ever felt outside a cockpit with only sky in every direction.

In spite of everything, in spite of all common sense, for the first time in his life that he could remember, he felt entirely **safe** in this strange city and circumstance, and was determined to simply enjoy it, for so long as the irrational circumstance lasted!

There were a couple of times that they had to pull over and check a map, which turned into a conversation on orienteering, with reminiscences of training marches gone spectacularly wrong overtold by tales of Scout hikes gone spectacularly wrong and epic wandering-in-circles events of yore--

Somehow the ride to drop people off turned into a sing-along -- because it was a motorway, and the air-conditioning was broken, so they had to have the windows down, and it just seemed like the right thing to the musically-inclined students in charge of the affair -- with people filling in the lines they knew so it didn't matter if you didn't know all the song, because someone else knew that part of it, and when nobody did everyone hummed, until it turned into fits of giggling and someone started a new song.

Somehow **he** ended up singing "Constantinople," along with Hansen -- after which there had followed a terribly intense discussion of the meaning of the song in which he'd gotten pretty worked up about the point of it being that you **couldn't** turn back time, and not only that, you shouldn't **want** to -- that people needed to reconcile themselves to reality and move on, instead of looking back always, at which point someone had pointed out that on another level it could be read as a denunciation of imperialism and it turned into a very loud and enjoyable political studies discussion for a few more miles.

(He'd gone from cramming for maths A-Levels, in a home ruled by a control freak who regarded almost everything as an enemy to destroy, **trying** to avoid that destruction, to Cranwell, and struggling to be better than the best, and never had the chance for the kinds of normal youthful social interactions that even his sister had managed to seize at boarding school -- and so found it unique and charming, instead of silly and annoying. It had also been a very, **very** long day.)

Eventually, "Waltzing' Matilda" was committed, by **everyone** , and they only wound down as they came to the last turn-off, taking them from the main highway along the coast into a residential area, which he thought was in the northern perimeter of the city, and rolled in quietly, talking in whispers, so as not to disturb anyone -- at least no more than the noisy motor did, but they shut that off as soon as they'd arrived at Hansen's people's house -- which was large, for any where else **but** America, but didn't seem **particularly** extravagant, especially for southern California.

While he was getting his bags out, Hansen was busy exchanging contact information -- there was some sort of upcoming performing arts production at their college and he thought that his in-laws would want to attend, he said -- so he waited, while everyone carefully typed in IFF sequences via their phone keyboards and he thought yet again that there **ought** to be easier ways of doing all this, the way it was on television.

And then he recalled that he ought to make his thanks, too, and walked over to where their driver was looking at something under the bonnet, which was round the back on these things, like all Volkswagens, and expressed his hope that it was nothing serious -- or if it **was** , could they help? He had a torch in his bag -- a flashlight, he corrected, at the student's alarmed glance towards his luggage -- if they **needed** it.

But Edin assured him this was just a precaution, to make sure nothing had started leaking since last time, but nothing had so everything was fine.

"Thank you for the lift," Pentecost said, as he'd meant to originally. "We're very much obliged."

"Oh no, I should thank **you** ," said the blond boy, who was tall and gawky with a sharp boned look that he'd seen often in Vienna and occasionally in Brussels and Paris, and much more often on his much rarer visits to Moscow. He glanced down, then up with a tightness coming into his expression. "For not taking offence about my religion."

"Ah," Pentecost said, stalling for time, not sure how to respond -- he could hardly pretend not to understand, and **_I'm sorry_** hardly seemed adequate --

"I **used** to think your people were the good guys, during our war, hearing my family talk, after we came here," said the young Kosovar, his smile like broken glass in the streetlight's sullen glow. "How the RAF **saved** us, and the UN. And then I grew up, and learned even **that** wasn't that simple. But nothing **is** , is it?"

This time he **did** say, "I'm sorry," because inadequate as it was, it was the **only** thing he could see fitting the situation.

Edin shrugged, brittle and sharp and full of dangerous clarity.

**"I'm** all right -- nobody sees who I am, except the ones who don't **care** , like these guys," and he nodded to his friends.

"Then thank you **again** , for extending us your hospitality," he answered seriously, "in spite of politics."

The young man shrugged again, making a brushing-off gesture with his hands.

"Your friend's cute," he said, "and you're very polite. The other way round, too," and he swung back up into the driver's seat of the Kombi, blasé as **only** a twenty-something college student pretending to care for nothing can be.

Because he had no answer for that, nor the heat in his ears from it, Pentecost hurried over to where the Australian pilot was shaking hands all round and waving enthusiastic farewell as the rest of them piled into their antiquated monstrosity to roll off in a roil of smoke and grumbling from the exhaust.

(It wasn't until a good few days later that it occurred to him to wonder if Edin's words had meant anything else, if anything besides youth and Eastern European ancestry was responsible for that awkward bravado of bearing and smooth-cheeked, delicate jawline -- and less than a second to decide it didn't matter, it was **still** embarrassing -- though still also flattering.)

Hansen guided them down the side of the house, where a narrow pavement led to a side entrance flanked by dim stands of fragrant blossoming foliage, explaining softly as he unlocked the door, "Guest room's this side, 's a converted garage -- if we're quiet we won't wake anybody up," and let them in to a sort of mudroom (though he wasn't sure they ever **had** mud in Los Angeles, it seemed to be dry all the time, from everything he'd heard) that was airy and full of plants, like a built-in loggia.

This made a convenient place to wait while his host figured out which other key was the correct interior door key (there were several, in point of fact) and though he was on the verge of digging out his torch after all, Hansen found it in the ambient light from the city skyline after all. They crept in, with the exaggerated caution of those trying not to make a racket in the middle of the night and knowing that **this** means they will probably knock over a very large vase as a result.

But there were no misadventures, no stumbles or other ill-omens, and once the RAAF man had found the guest room light switch and used its ambient light to point out the directions of the front part of the house, the kitchen area, and the guest bathroom adjacent, it looked like the rest of the night (what little remained) would pass by without further disturbance.

Of course, they **couldn't** be that lucky.

The argument that followed was no less fierce, for being conducted entirely in agitated whispers.

"You're a **guest** ! You can't sleep on the floor -- **I'll** take the floor, don't **worry** about it--"

"I'm **not** kicking you out of your own bed! You've gone to **enough** inconvenience already, I'll take the floor."

"You're a **guest** !"

"So are **you--"** he hissed back.

"Look, I **can't** make you give up your hotel room and be all, 'Sorry mate, I dint **think** that far ahead, but we got a nice **rug** , how's that?' "

"It **is** a nice carpet. Very plush, very posh, that and a sleeping bag --what's **wrong** with that?"

**"No** \-- No, y'can't--" Hansen was reduced to hand-flailing and headshakes at this point.

Finally Pentecost stopped clutching his brow (he had yet to be broken of this, by youths well-meaning but **severely** lacking in self-discipline) and in that despair that only springs from the realization that yes, it really IS after three, and getting ever more so, said as he pointed to it, "This is **ridiculous** , this mattress is bigger than a two-man tent. **I'll** take that side, and **you** can take the other. **If** you've no objection."

Hansen stared at him, as if he might be joking. He shrugged.

"If you'd really **rather** sleep on the floor, I can't **stop** you. Far be it from me, and all that." And he grabbed his kit and hauled it off to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth and change while Hansen agonized over whatever bizarre Australian-American domestic protocols were being violated, and it was **just too late** in one day and early in the next to be dealing with this, it really was--

When he returned, in his acceptable at hotel **or** guest house pyjamas, the other man was sitting on the side of the bed in vest and pants, staring at the lamp on the dresser as if it were broadcasting some secret message -- or rather, with the look on his face of someone whose long hours were running neck and neck with his alcohol consumption and had together nearly caught up to him.

"Don't your in-laws have a sofa? I can sleep on **that** , if you've got a blanket."

"Nah, it's **horrible** ," the other pilot shook his head, " 's this really expensive indestructible leather, looks great but it **feels** like cling wrap, y'know, what you put box lunches in? -- they call it Martins' Folly 'cos they can't **offload** it on anyone else 'cos everyone **touches** it first. You'd only put someone you absolutely **hated** on it."

**_It's almost 0400 hours, I don't NEED to hear long, drawn-out stories about unwise furniture purchases--_ **

"Okay. Fine. All one to me." And he set his bag down near to hand -- sparing a regretful thought for the fact that since it **was** more than half-past-three, he wasn't going to get **any** reading done tonight after all -- as he slid under the duvet, closing his eyes even before the fabric had stopped settling.

The mattress creaked -- and stayed sagged, and creaked again.

**_Floor. Bed. PICK ONE, DAMMIT!_** But it was too much effort to say as much, and so he just waited for sleep to start happening.

It didn't.

**_He's going to fall asleep sitting up and fall off the edge and break his fool neck,_** Pentecost thought with the grim dreariness of someone foretelling the future of the House of Atreus, and so managed to muster up enough energy to snarl, **"Hansen! _Don't_** fall asleep sitting there!" though mindful to keep his voice low enough not to waken both their hosts.

"Huh? Oh, right, **right,"** the other mumbled, and crawled under the covers himself, rolling himself to face the other side of the bed while considerately not taking more than his share of the bedclothes.

"G'night," he said, still sounding disgustingly cheerful for someone nine-tenths comatose at this hour of the night/morning, and it seemed like things were working out finally, enough so that he could actually get some rest, or so Pentecost optimistically thought.

Of course that meant that five minutes later, the Australian asked in a sleepy, conversational tone, but sounding as though he'd been puzzling about this for a while, and knowing the answer **_right now_** was vital, "Are you **really** from London?"

"--yeah--?" and then, as the echoes of it kept sounding stranger and stranger in his mind, "Why? Where **else** would I be from?"

"I dunno," Hansen sighed, and then that was it, for real, this time.

 


	3. LOS ANGELES - WASHINGTON, DC

One of the difficulties of travelling as much as his line of work required was the erratic internal timekeeping it imposed -- two and a quarter hours of sleep **wasn't** enough, wasn't within range of enough, but it was all he was able to **get** , and in any case it was dawn or nearly so.

So he crept quietly out of bed and took his regular working dress blues with him to shower and shave, as a sensible middle route between **_Screw Your Dress Codes!_** and **_Making Some Kind Of Statement Here!_** that wouldn't either offend **or** alarm their hosts -- he couldn't say for certain yet, but he didn't **think** that Hansen was the sort to show up at a family breakfast in full dress uniform, somehow!

Upon his second return to the guest room, to put his shaving kit back, he found that Hansen was nowhere to be found, the bed already made.

 ** _Damn, I did wake him after all,_** Pentecost thought guiltily, hearing water running from a bath elsewhere in the house. But when he made his way to the kitchen, the in-laws were already there, dressed, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

 ** _Seems that ordinary people DO still read the papers in America,_** he noted, having been unable to escape the ongoing media controversy over whether or not print was still a viable concern here, the past few years in DC (which wasn't a very good case study since so many professionals in various agencies read so many different papers professionally there.)

"Oh!" the woman -- who could have been any of the round-faced, compact, dark-haired shoppers he passed in the squares of France or Belgium -- exclaimed looking up at him, and he froze, thinking, **_DAMMIT, Hansen, I trusted you, I really did_** \-- but they both smiled, wide-open welcoming smiles, and Mrs. Martin went on, "Herc **_said_** you were tall, but I didn't expect you'd be **that** tall! You're taller than **he** is, I think!"

"It happens sometimes," he replied, having **no** idea how to respond to this.

 **"Hey!"** Hansen shouted, from **_just behind him, AGAIN_** , right before ducking between his left arm and the door frame in some space-folding way that didn't quite make sense but ended up with the other pilot inside the kitchen without he himself having moved out of the way, leaving only a streak of water on the pale shirt fabric from his hair, to prove that he'd actually passed by instead of teleporting. "You gotta be **accurate** , Sarah -- I said he was **tall, dark, and _handsome_ ,** didn't I? And wasn't I **right? _Hm?"_**

His mother-in-law held out her hand, just as Pentecost realized that her husband had been folding up one of the small inserts from the paper into a dart, which she neatly tossed at the red-haired man, who caught it and threw it back while his father-in-law shook his head and tsked at it all, as if he hadn't made that first missile!

"Charlie Martin," he half-rose to shake hands across the table, "and that's Sarah, throwing paper aeroplanes again -- and **you** know Herc, of course -- he just showed up on the porch here one day and we keep feeding him--"

 ** _Oh no -- they're ALL cheerful morning people,_** he noted with worse than dismay. It wasn't the morning part, **that** went with the military -- it was the people who had the absolute gall to be chirping like sparrows the second the sun came up, who seemed like they were only millimetres away from breaking into ecstatic cries while bounding for joy over the sheer splendiferousness of nature, when **normal** people were still trying to conceal the fact that **they** were trying to locate the nearest caffeine source behind a facade of competence!

The banter flowed on and on while Hansen puttered about the cupboards taking out mugs, looking at them critically and putting them back in some arcane private ritual -- Pentecost noted that today he was wearing a bright teal-and-white print shirt and khaki cutoffs with well-worn leather sandals, and looked **much** less "bootneck," much **more** Australian surfer type, than yesterday.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, "I found the **only** matching cups in your entire house! How can you not have even a **single set** of dishes, people? Is this some new **trend** in California, like, they're sellin' 'em all mixed up in the stores now?" and Pentecost realized that the stream-of- ** _un_** consciousness or whatever it had been on the bus, and at the pub, yesterday -- hadn't been **anything** out of the ordinary for him.

"We've already had **our** breakfast," Sarah Martin announced, "but you can fix yourselves whatever you like." Which was tantamount to telling someone in the cockpit of a strange aircraft, "Push any button you like!" but her son-in-law seemed to know where everything was, at least.

"Eggs, bacon, toast? **Boring** I know, but **_traditional,"_** and the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes at the last word nearly undid Pentecost's composure.

**_Too early!_ **

"After brekkie, how about I show you some **real** California? --Coffee?"

**_As opposed to SURREAL California, I take it..._ **

"Both of those sound fine," and if one sounded better at the moment than the other, he was curious enough after yesterday to see what Hansen considered 'Real California', **after** he'd gotten the caffeine!

"We also have **tea** ," Charlie added, "and **before** you cringe, we have loose leaf Twinings, a stoneware teapot, a box of something **Herc** brought last time, **and** bo nay from Chinatown -- please, have **whatever** you want!"

 **"The coffee's _already brewed,"_** Hansen said in a very loud stage whisper, and this time he did laugh.

"Coffee for now, but I'll be sure to take you up on that offer later, sir."

"Oh, we're just doctors, I'm not a ** _sir,"_** Hansen's father-in-law protested, while his wife added in her own stage whisper, "You'll make him feel **_old,"_** and the younger man, setting down his mug, gave Pentecost a pat on the shoulder meant to commiserate rather than startle.

"Sorry, should've **warned** you -- there's no grown-ups in **this** house."

The paper dart war continued over his head for the next quarter-hour (it had to be fished out of the pan at one point) while he and Mr. (Or should that be Dr. --? he hesitated to ask) Martin read alternate parts of the _L.A. Times_ (ducking as need be) and then there was a really good fry-up, not what he would have expected at all from someone who looked like a hardbitten soldier-of-fortune -- at least when he wasn't wearing a Hawaiian shirt and threatening to douse his relatives with the sink attachment!

"So, I was thinkin' I'd show him some of the **less** touristy bits, start out at Topanga and then just ramble about town. We can fend for ourselves -- you don't need to worry about putting anything by for us, we might be late again."

"Young people," Charlie sighed, deadpan, exchanging sections of paper with him once more.

"You'll want to wear something good for trekkin'," Hansen advised him, adding, "If you just flew in from after RIMPAC briefings then you've got your CS 95s, right? 'Cos it'll be dusty an' some of the trails are pretty rough."

Pentecost gave him a dubious look.

"Trails? I **thought** this was a city."

"Oh, but this is the wild West! Bears an' rattlesnakes 'n everything!"

 **"Don't** listen to him, he makes things up," his mother-in-law laughed. "But the parks **are** pretty steep, at least the parts he and Angela like to go hiking in. Oh, have you got one of those baby carriers yet? You can't take a **stroller** up Mount Hollywood--"

"Nah, we'll just stuff the kid in a backpack, throw some granola in, he'll be fine!"

"You don't **need** to 'go walkabout' if you don't **_want_** to, by the way," said Charles, looking very knowingly at their guest. "Herc's idea of 'fun' involves wandering around dirt roads until you drop--"

"Hey!" The other aviator sounded offended. "Sometimes we wander around museums till we drop, too!"

"Oh no, I was on my way to a spot of hiking in the Rockies--" **_in blessed, blessed solitude!_** "--before I got diverted. I'll go change at once."

As before, Hansen said nothing about the disregard of regulations he was committing, by wearing his uniform off base and outside approved circumstances -- but the tan Combat Dress would serve as camouflage -- not merely literally -- to most eyes at least.

"It's not far to the beach, we can pick up the bus a little ways down."

"You **know** we don't mind if you borrow the car," Sarah Martin smiled, and when Hansen replied, "Yeah, but you'd mind if we **wrecked** it," she just laughed and shook her head.

"Nobody here understands what it's like, havin' **everything** be on the wrong side -- well, **you** do, but y'know what I mean."

The Australian shook his head, bewildered, as they walked down the empty pavements toward the shore.

"Plus there's all sorts of **weirdness** , when it comes to ridin' the bus -- people'd rather take a car than walk three streets over to the shops, but they'd sooner crawl through **broken glass** than take a bus, out here in suburbia. --Not everyone, of course, 'cos there's plenty of people **on** them, but it's this **status symbol** to drive your car even if you don't **got** to."

"Yes, it's the same on the East Coast...maybe not **quite** so bad," Pentecost agreed. "It isn't a race matter, if you're wondering -- or only by accident of economic circumstance." **_\--God, I sound like I'm lecturing Officer Cadets!_** But Hansen didn't seem to notice.

"Yeah, I thought it **might** be, but then Sofia next door asked my father-in-law if I'd lost my license when we were here a couple years ago, 'cos nobody could understand why else **anybody'd** be walkin' if they owned a car."

"Not very practical -- but then, status symbols seldom are." He added, "It turns into a game of chicken-or-egg, too, since the argument against funding transit goes that 'nobody uses it so it shouldn't be subsidized' -- when the problem is that it's **so** poorly funded that even people who would use it, **can't** half the time," thinking of the incredible logistic difficulties he'd run into trying to take the train from Washington to Boston, and how it was literally easier to **fly** that distance than go from one station to the other by rail!

 ** _"Strange."_** The Australian shook his head. "I don't see **how** they can get away with it."

Pentecost couldn't help but chuckle.

"Spend some time in DC, and you'll wonder what they **can't** get away with. They call it 'The Beltway Mindset,' it's almost a matter of **pride** , to be **_so_** far out of touch with reality you can't find it with a telescope -- or in touch with only their own little world, there."

"Huh, I guess you **would** know about that, in your line of work." Hansen thought about it for a second more, then said, "And then they go on about The Forbidden City, and **Beijing** bein' isolated -- nobody looks in the mirror, eh?"

"No," and an odd shiver went down Pentecost's back -- something was **off** , and he was starting to notice it, but not fully aware what it **was** , yet.

The walk was very quiet, it being so early that no one was about yet, on a weekend, and so they kept their voices down instinctively as they went -- but it was interesting to look at the architecture, which was and wasn't like anywhere else, with its mix of red Mediterranean-style clay tiles and stucco and brick and plastic siding and whatever struck the builders' fancy, it seemed like, with gardens that were part tropical and part desert and part English cottage, all jumbled together every which way unequally, and they all looked **especially** unearthly in the blue early morning light, waiting for the sun to scale the heights to their east.

"You fix your phone yet?" his host asked him as they reached the end of the land and the beginning of the sea, crossing over the motorway to a set of shallow ramps that led down to the water.

"No," and he snorted. "If they **truly** need me for anything, they can **find** me --or if they **can't,** they need more help than **I** can give them!" **_There is NOTHING I want to hear from any of that lot, right now..._** or ever, if he were being truly honest, but for now, he was **on leave,** on paper at least, and this time was his, and he was going to take it, for once. "What about **you**? Are you going to call **your** fellows back?"

"Oh, nah, **I'm** on leave too -- they just looked me up on account of knowin' I was in town, made me feel bad for sayin' no -- wanted to make up 'our' numbers, y'know? But they're not in my squadron even. More friends of my **brother's** , really." The RAAF man sighed. "So I'll prob'ly get an earful eventually but -- I don't care, it's **my** time and **my** trouble, not Scott's."

They began to walk down the smooth, pale sand with its almost mechanical-looking ripples left by the receded tide, like something generated by a computerized process instead of by semi-random natural processes. It really was extraordinarily quiet and tranquil, not at all like the glaring, crowded, stereotypically-Californian beaches of film and television, at this hour.

The light grew little by little, and every change was beautiful.

"How much trouble **are** you in, honest?"

Pentecost shrugged, with more bravado than he felt -- except, deep down, he really **didn't** care, not today. The air was cool, the sky was clear, there was a brisk breeze off the sea and he'd had a fine breakfast in company that appeared to enjoy his -- if this was all some otherworldly illusion, he was going to enjoy it as long as it lasted!

"There isn't a superabundance of aviators who can read Chinese. The number of those who can also **speak** it well enough to avoid insulting everyone at a diplomatic function is a lot smaller -- and the ones who can get around on their own **outside** the Consulate, well..."

Setting it out like that, really made it clear how little leverage they **did** have on him, other than reprimands or missed promotions.

"I suppose...they **could** decide that my ability to listen to mechanics' scuttlebutt while waiting for a flight as I read the local paper **isn't** worth some upper class twit's second cousin's disjointed nose -- in which case, I'm sure I can get a job flyin' a desk for the PLAAF," he said with a sort of morbid humour, because it was **true** , but he'd never even thought of it that way, until now.

Not even with Jiachen having been sent to court him -- which they'd both known full well, so neither of them ever had to talk about it **or** anything pertaining to NATO and Commonwealth and PRC paranoia, and could get on with talking about more important things, like how to keep **all** their idiot pilots from starting WWIII playing video games with actual aircraft, or which science fiction writers were worth spending one's salary on!

"So...huh." Hansen frowned, with that odd pensive flicker of his.

"What?"

"Just surprised you ain't **kicked** at it all, yet."

"Oh, well, then I'd have to get a **real** job," he shrugged, and the RAAF man laughed, as he'd expected.

Somehow they'd come around almost the entire curve of the little cove and to a place of taller rocks, where nobody else was in sight except at a great distance, at this hour -- a few joggers, someone taking a dog for a run, someone else doing tai chi, just early-rising people who lived in the houses across the highway, no daytrippers yet, besides them.

"Here's those rocks I was talkin' about -- there's not a lot of 'em in LA, but this part's really scenic, later on it'll be crawlin' with photographers doin' fashion shoots, weddings 'n such, all pushin' each other out of the way."

It **was** scenic, it reminded him of the dolmens up in Scotland, and he carelessly said so, and then realized his mistake -- but Hansen only nodded and said something about trilithons instead of telling him to speak English, or the like, and added that he'd always wanted to make it across to Dublin, to see the original Book of Kells at Trinity College--

 ** _Aspiring art student, that's right, I forgot --_** and he relaxed, and admired the view of the light on the stone as they circled about them.

And then he realized he shouldn't have relaxed at all, when the other man said cheerfully, "So, if you're Intel, you **must** have some hand-to-hand trainin', right? Want to spar a bit, go a few rounds before it gets too hot for it? Sand's nice and firm, good footing for it, down here."

All the little things that didn't add up, started to add up in a **very** unhealthy-looking way -- the lack of concern for regulations, the convenient coincidence of family in town, his over-familiarity with the area, his so-very unconventional interests -- all of them things that **should** have pinged his suspicions hard, and **_hadn't._**

 ** _I left my bag and my computer with those people, I just ASSUMED he was telling the truth about them, I didn't even bother to run a check to see if they're real!_** Oh, this was an operational failure of a magnitude that he'd never have made, anywhere else, at any other time--

"What is this, some kind of joke? You brought me out here to challenge me to a **fight?"** he asked, trying to keep his tone light. "Is that an Australian custom, or what?"

"I didn't get **my** dance, last night," the red-haired man said, quite reasonable in his tone.

"You didn't **ask,"** he replied, as matter-of-factly.

"Your **card** was **_full,"_** and there was a wicked edge to his smile now, a cold spark like the midnight sun shining through arctic ice in his eyes.

 ** _So this is how it goes down,_** Pentecost thought, with a sort of hallucinatory clarity, putting together that he'd gone off the grid voluntarily -- **_phone still disabled, oh, isn't THAT the laugh on me!_** \-- decoyed to a remote locale by the water, by a man who was almost his match in height and likely equal in muscle -- and certainly had no fear of **him** , or of fighting--

\-- while at the same time the logical part of his mind was pointing out frantically that there was **no** logical reason for a double-agent to pick out one planespotter among many to lull into complacency and then waylay, that there'd been **far** better opportunities to waylay him any time and place between that first bar, and here, when he was rested and alert -- and there were houses all around, hundreds of people only a few hundred meters away (but none of them paying any attention to strangers) -- was a terrible point for an ambush--

**_None of it makes any sense! -- but WOULD it? if you knew something you weren't supposed to, and hadn't put it together yet -- no, it makes just as much sense as your wild notion he's a fox-spirit!_ **

And then there was a colder chill, because that **did** make as much sense, made even more sense, in the logic not only of stories but of reality -- there was an **anomaly** here, and how did it go? Eliminate the impossible, but what truly **WAS** impossible? What did we **really** know, about the universe and its shadowed corners, and which one might hide a doorway into a different reality? A true analyst ruled **nothing** out--

**_So then the question is -- not so much kitsune or sidhe, but seelie or unseelie!_ **

And then he laughed, because it didn't **_matter_**. This was **easy** , the answer was **obvious** \--

 **IF** the stranger is a mortal traveller -- if the stranger is the Devil in disguise -- if the stranger is a lord of the Hollow Hills, or an ancient god -- **or** goddess twice-disguised! -- **_none of it matters,_** you treat them the same **regardless** of whoever you think they are, and you take the consequences.

And the truth was, he didn't **want** to hurt the other man, no matter who or what he was, no matter what his rationale for all this was.

**_Not even if he's betrayed you?_ **

**_No. Not even then._ **

For he'd given him one night of peace and shelter, and unexpected beauties -- and if that were the last night he'd ever get, and this the price of that refuge, Stacker Pentecost decided, it was worth it. But he wasn't going to make it **easy** , the stranger would have to work for his victory -- **if** he could win it at all!

**_Play with fire, sir, if you wish -- but two CAN play that game--_ **

"What are you doing?" Because the other was kicking out a hollow in the sand, not large but relatively deep.

"Safe place to stow our gear -- don't want anyone wanderin' off with our phones an' cash while we're distracted," he replied, looking judiciously around at the smaller rocks on the strand.

 ** _Winner takes all? Well, it's a sensible thought--_** and he put his own cell phone and wallet into it, stepping well back so that his adversary could put his own gear, and wristwatch, into the basin. Then he saw the size of the stone the other man had hefted to secure the cache, and his heart sank all over again.

Hansen -- for he had to think of him as **something** , whatever his name really was -- kicked off his sandals & toed them into the hole as well.

"Boots gonna get soaked," he said, waiting patiently with the enormous slab upheld.

 ** _So we're going to play it out to the end?_** But he unlaced them and set them down too, watchfully, stepping back quickly though Hansen made no move to brain him with the rock, only put it down like a lid over their stuff and brushed off his hands with a cheerful grin.

 ** _Not a real name, but a code-name -- Hercules!_** Pentecost thought, and then he could only concentrate on the moment, and trying to stay alive, because his opponent fought in a style that was half-boxer, half-barroom brawl, and far too fast, far too agile for his mass and height.

He found himself spending more effort ducking and dodging than attacking, and the few blows he landed were as much by luck as skill -- or a different sort of skill, when he stopped thinking about forms at all and simply **reacted** , following the lines of the action like a hawk following its prey--

One time he tripped the other, so that he went down under the surf -- but he was up again in a flash, laughing like a berserker, and at him before he could retreat, and the blows he took then were definitely pulled, as much as his own -- it would leave a bruise, for certain, but no damage, and **that** wasn't reassuring at all, because it meant they (whoever **they** were!) wanted him alive--

If only the sun were over the hills yet -- but no such luck, no natural advantage was his, of course! But there **was** one thing, free to him, and he circled them around, off the packed wet stretch of beach towards the drier land.

Then, with a wide, definite gesture he raked his hand through the sand, brought it up closed, holding it obviously, openly (but his fingers had been **open** , under the sand) and cocked his wrist, waiting for the moment as they circled.

It worked perfectly -- he snapped his hand towards the other's eyes, the man sidestepped like lightning **_right_** into his oncoming shoulder and went down like a tree to a hurricane. Before either of them could draw another breath, Pentecost had him by the throat, not tight enough to hurt but enough to notice, **and** that his full weight was poised over his shoulder, ready to drop down at any hint of a struggle.

In a low, furious tone he demanded, as the weird water-hued eyes dilated in alarm beneath his, all humour gone out of them, "Why do you **care** , if I'm a spy? What **_is it_** you want to **_know?"_**

 **"I _told_ you."** The Australian -- or self-proclaimed Australian! -- looked and sounded as baffled as he felt.

"You **only** wanted to know, **IF** the Yanks are about to start a **second** front?"

 **"Or** the balloon goin' up over China," the red-haired man nodded, against his fingers.

"That's ** _all?_** The **only reason** you've been hounding me about -- my **job?"**

"Well **yeah** \-- it's a lot closer to **my** house, than **_yours."_** The man who'd called himself 'Hansen' sounded completely serious, for all the dry twist to his reply, and Pentecost felt his heart stutter.

"Not really." He thought of all the little streets, all the apartment blocks with their little shops tucked under them, the familiar hills and curves under foot, the prismatic shimmer of the signs at twilight, the green hills rising over the harbour and all of it gone in the hungry flame, the buildings shattered like Nagasaki's all those years ago--

"You okay?" But he couldn't answer, not to speak, not even to shake his head. "Stacker?" His prisoner shrugged off his nerveless fingers, sat up, took him by both shoulders and stared into his eyes. **_"What's wrong?"_** And he managed to shake it off, enough to take a breath and answer, at least.

"Sorry. I've **got** no house, but...Hong Kong's as much home as **anywhere** is."

"Ah -- try growin' up with ** _'On The Beach'_** for background radiation," the Australian said, but not with a sneer, only a rueful compassion. "That'll fuck your childhood right up -- even the ones who don't grow up on air bases. I di'nt mean to shake you up like that, **honest."** He got to his feet, saying, "C'mon," and took him by the wrist, tugging him up with no apparent effort.

**_Good God -- But I DID win, even if it WAS by trickery--_ **

As though hearing his thoughts, his companion grinned again.

 **"That** **_was_** a good trick -- got me fair to rights, I di'nt see **that** comin' at all." Brushing futilely at wet sand on his clothes, he sighed happily, "We could've kept goin' all **day** , otherwise."

"You **want** to?" Pentecost heard the words and didn't believe what he was hearing, still less that they were coming out of his own mouth. But it was true -- it **had** been fun, even with the fear, and now -- **now** he wasn't afraid, and here was someone he could spar with, that he didn't have to be **careful** of, in so many ways and for so many reasons.

Hansen grinned, but shook his head.

"Nah, right **now** I want a Coke and maybe some ice cream. It'll be hot soon -- by the time we get turned around and over to the Pier, we'll be dried out. Sound good to you?"

It did, and he said so -- feeling even more dislocated than he had last night, broken away from reality as the morning light broadened, the sky around them like water and the sun now lifted clear over the scrub-clad ridges -- the San Gabriel range, he recalled from his maps, like a barricade against the Mojave's sands hanging above the city like the full bell of an hourglass.

**_Who IS this madman? Talks about da Vinci's helicopter drawings in one breath, then wants to fight like a Viking warrior, for no reason but the joy of battle? Is he brave, or stupid, or only trusting, trusting me because --I don't KNOW why--_ **

**_Well, this day can't get any weirder, that's certain!_ **

He made a point, however, of hoisting that damned rock out of the way before Hansen could get to it, which only won him a cheerful "Thanks!" and his gear passed up to him.

 ** _No more idiotic macho competitions!_** and then he thought, ** _But we should spar some more, because that was far closer to the real thing, and probably won't land either of us in hospital._**

Pentecost shook his head, at himself fumbling with the knots of his bootlaces and his own general state of distraction.

 ** _I'm not functioning like an analyst,_** he admitted, **_not right now. It's just possible that the house of the 'Martins' had been a setup -- but not the entire pub, last night!_** And then his mind started working on ways in which that establishment could actually be a front for some organization or other, ways that didn't involve television logic, and couldn't come up with a single one.

He tried very hard not to think about what had gone down last night in relation to the Matter of Ulster, as he termed it in his private thoughts, and how that had gotten away from all of them, and how the late Major Pentecost, DCM, would have handled the situation, let alone thought of **his** handling of it.

Since Hansen was talking about air approaches and prevailing winds and what landing at LAX was like according to pilots of his acquaintance -- "the Grand Fraternity of Bus Drivers," he called it-- it was relatively easy to do so.

Pentecost shook his head, at himself fumbling with the knots of his bootlaces and his own general state of distraction.

 ** _I'm not functioning like an analyst,_** he admitted, **_not right now. It's just possible that the house of the 'Martins' had been a setup -- but NOT the entire pub, last night!_** And then his mind started working on ways in which that establishment could actually be a front for some organization or other, ways that didn't involve television logic, and couldn't come up with a single one.

He tried very hard not to think about what had gone down last night in relation to the Matter of Ulster, as he termed it in his private thoughts, and how that had gotten away from all of them, and how the late Major Pentecost, DCM, would have handled the situation, let alone thought of **his** handling of it.

Since Hansen was talking about air approaches and prevailing winds and what landing at LAX was like according to pilots of his acquaintance -- "the Grand Fraternity of Bus Drivers," he called it-- it was relatively easy to do so.

The beach grew busier as they traversed southwards along the margin, and the daylight increased, but still thin enough that they weren't crowded. The big, famous pier that had been in so many movies was rather a disappointment -- it could **never** be the same as the composite image of itself, dressed up with all the arts of the silver screen.

But it was fun nevertheless -- a fairground's worth of gaudiness, but still in the setting-up stage, people taking boards off of windows, other early-morning visitors wandering about looking at the quiet, and a queue already forming for the amusement park, because if **anybody** in the world loved queuing more than his own people, it was Americans. (At least there weren't any bivvy tents -- nobody had set up more than folding chairs in this line!)

Not much was open as yet, but they eventually found a place along it that sold "waffle cones" and got themselves ice cream, something both as world travellers agreed that this country did spectacularly well, how of all its boasted successes **that** might be the real triumph of American ingenuity -- though Hansen argued that they fell down on the gelato front, as compared to **his** homeland.

 **"Really?"** Pentecost was skeptical -- after all, Italian-American cuisine was one of those boasts -- and he'd never heard that Australia was particularly noted for its own version of the same! But the other was adamant, though only mock-offended.

"Now, c'mon, which of us is **more** likely to know what they sell where **_I_** live? Let alone how good it is, or easy to find? When you come visit us, you can see for yourself," and the casual certainty of that statement, the apparent conviction and sincerity of it, stabbed the Englishman's conscience hard.

**_I thought you were my enemy, an hour ago -- my betrayer!_ **

How could he possibly presume so far -- but Hansen didn't seem to think of it as such.

**_He has a brother, maybe that's it?_ **

Because he had no experience whatsoever of that sort of masculine camaraderie, no opportunity to make boyhood friends, between the frequent moves and the paternal state-of-permanent-anger, no one to turn to besides Luna -- and he felt disloyal even **thinking** it, but he'd never been able to burden her with his troubles because **hers** were so much worse at home, so on another level he'd never had **anyone** to turn to, when it came to the expectations of boys, of any race, and especially of eldest sons--

And then it hit him -- No, they really didn't have any leverage over **him** , though they could make his life unpleasant no doubt (but in the scheme of things, hardly a fleabite!) but there was **Luna's** career to think about, **_not_** just his own. How could he have failed to consider it?

He stopped short on the street corner -- they were almost at another bus stop, because Hansen had someplace else in mind to take him, something that filled him with mischievous glee -- his expression so stricken that the other man looked at him in alarm.

"I've **got** to to fix my phone -- I need to call my sister!"

"Alright, when we get lunch there'll be a table you can take 'em apart on--"

"No, you don't understand -- I need to do it **_now!_** I need to warn her!"

 ** _"Warn_** her?"

"She's RAF too -- they'll take it out on **her!** I've got to reach her now, if it's not too late I can prepare her--"

"Where **_is_** she right now?"

"Lossiemouth."

"What **time** is it there?"

And for the first time since he could recall, Pentecost had no idea and couldn't even come up with the figures to do the reckoning for that.

"It's gotta be close to GMT, right?" Hansen looked at his watch. "Not too bad. There's a Macca's across the way," pointing to the infamous arched yellow logo, "we'll get a coffee an' do it there. Or just use mine, I've got international minutes. But -- just **stop** , for a second, **_please_** ," he made a placating gesture, "an' lets **think** about what we're gonna tell her, okay? Let's look at this like we're **pilots** \-- which we are! -- make a **checklist** an' go through it, alright?"

 ** _But you don't understand!_** Pentecost wanted to grab him and **shake** him -- but it seemed like too much of an effort, in his current state of despair.

"So what **exactly** did you do, that could be construed as, or **was** , against the old **_espree,_** eh?"

And the Australian began to count them off on his fingers.

"You told Hughes to fuck off an' die but **not** in so many words -- turnin' your back on him **after _he_** told you to fuck off -- again **not** using language that could get him written up but he **did** tell you to scram, so how's that anything he can complain about, huh? And **you** stopped **me** from punching him in the head, so on balance the fact that he felt **snubbed** there don't hold much weight against the priority of breakin' up a brawl **before** it happens! That would've looked **really** bad. Again, point in **_your_** favour."

Pentecost thought it **very** odd, how the other man was talking about his own actions as if they were those of **_another_** man, as if he were discussing someone else's flying, in fact -- but he supposed it made for better reports, to be able to detach one's self from one's behaviours conceptually like that.

He'd certainly heard enough anecdotes of Hurricane and Spitfire pilots whose reports more resembled small children playing with model planes -- "And then I came over VROOOOM and he went SPLOSH into the drink, yeah!" -- to see how it might, at least.

"And -- this **Hughes** , he really **is** just another fuckin' admin-o, right? He's not your 'control' or whatever it's called, just some **twit** they slung along 'cos of his fam'ly connections an' maybe a bit more of a chin than the usual run of brass-polishing twits hangin' about the Consulate, yes? No? Maybe?"

"That would be a yes, a no, and a maybe, in that order," Pentecost conceded.

"So -- strike Hughes off the list. He's **nothing**. If he complains about you, I will go down there and--" his grin was dangerous here -- " **testify** under oath to **_his_** conduct unbecoming an officer, a gentleman, **an'** above all, a human being -- and, ah, **mention** that word gets around, he better **not** count on anyone in the RAAF standin' him rounds, I'm not sayin' we're **all that** when it comes to race relations ourselves -- though Canberra **is** tryin' hard these days to recruit people who **don't** look like me, but -- you threw a messmate to the wolves to kiss Yank arse? **_That's_** not gonna fly."

With that Hansen moved on to the next set of points.

 **"Then** you checked out of your hotel -- again, you weren't waitin' for **instructions** there, you didn't have anybody else you were supposed to meet, right? You said it was on a **list** \-- prob'ly the same ones we get for **our** holiday travels, places that got deals worked with the DoD."

This sounded very likely to be the truth, rather than any sort of **safehouse** deal going -- substitute "Ministry" for "Department," was all!

"So no skin off their nose, really, **unless** somebody's got one of those under-the-table deals goin' that the papers would love to hear about, **if** the papers wanted to hear about anything the least bit serious."

He paused, frowning, either to organize his thoughts or because the next points were tricky ones.

 **"Then** you went offline, which could be a problem. But your phone was **broken** \-- can't be blamed for that! What **they** don't know won't hurt **_us_**. And, you said you were headed for the mountains to begin with. You'd have been out of contact off 'n on anyhow! So that one's a draw, but I **think** we're ahead by a nose."

It was astounding, what a difference one case change could make to a statement, from second- to first-person plural. Hansen's willingness to so **readily** accept his fabricated excuse for unavailability troubled him -- but Pentecost had to concede as well that this wasn't a particularly reasonable feeling, given his own uncaring culpability!

"We're up to **three** , that's you wearin' your SDs to the boozer because Gawd only knows what's left of the IRA that **hasn't** gone legit these days might crawl out of its **shoebox** an' kidnap you off an LA street, instead of stickin' a bomb under a motor or down a mailbox. ** _In America_**. Where they've been **so fuckin' _careful_** to keep their noses clean all these years, don't wanna foul their **fundraisin'** nest -- yeah, I got this big ol' bridge, if your bosses'll buy **that** \--"

"You mean **sofa** , don't you?" Because that was easier than admitting how wrong he'd been about **everything** , so far. ** _Well, not QUITE everything..._**

"Hah! Too right. We've **all** scraped enough idiots out of gutters, seen 'em end up in hospital -- **if** they're lucky -- to know that as far as mischief **our** people can get themselves into goes, that doesn't even **register** on the Richter scale."

"But--"

"--If they **want** to, they can give you grief over **anything**. I know. **But** we can give it right back -- if your mates don't have your back when the locals are pulling this 'dress code' horseshit, if they **ditch** you in a strange city, then the uniform **is** protection -- which was the whole point of NOT wearin' them off base any more, an' what're you **supposed** to do, stay in all weekend?"

"I think they'd **expect** so, yes."

"Well, stuff **that!** They wouldn't expect **_themselves_** to stay on the shelf till further notice! What's left?"

"How I **conducted** myself, while wearing said uniform?"

"C'mon, you and I both know that if airmen out on the town **don't** end up with at least one pavement kisser, you grab a leg, I'll grab a leg an' try to leg it **out** of here before the **cops** get here, this is a **very** good night as far as the duty officer's concerned. **_All we did_** was go to a quiet nightspot, have dinner an' a few drinks, a little quiet music, some dancing -- it wasn't just **respectable** , it was positively old-fashioned!"

The horrible thing was that Pentecost could see **exactly** how that case could be made, and how **completely** it would misrepresent the character of The First Circle, and found it strangely attractive -- especially the misrepresentation part! Train a man to dissemble and mislead and expect it won't **rebound** upon you...

"Yes. **_Dancing._** With blokes."

"Which would be a problem **because....?** They could use that to **argue** you're gay so that makes you a security risk an' throw you out in the cold, like they do here? 'Cos the RAAF **don't care."**

All of this logical argument was forcing him to stop and think, instead of reacting, no matter how frustrating. He took a breath, let it out in an exasperated sigh.

"No, it's **not** against our laws. There was a pretty serious court case about it a few years back that settled it. Legally they **can't** throw anyone out over that now -- and practically, they can't **afford** to any more. They just make it quite, **_quite_** clear that while you **can** be gay, you **oughtn't** \-- and if you **happen** to fail in that regard, **_please_** be good enough to keep it to yourself, like any **other** display of poor taste and judgement--"

And then, with a twinge of torn-at loyalty, not sure if he were being disloyal at all, but feeling equally that he owed some acknowledgement of his own family to the man who'd just opened up his entire home to him, he explained, "I've heard a good deal about it all, before **and** since, from my sister and her partner."

The red-haired man nodded, serious and understanding.

"Okay, I **see** where you're comin' from now, but -- honest, it really dun seem like you've **got** any cause for panic attacks."

"I **didn't _panic--"_**

"Stacker, **that** was the full-on freakout of somebody who **_just_** remembered he left the kettle on the gas -- **as** he's shippin' out." Hansen's expression was pitying, but not contemptuous. **"How** much sleep have you had?"

"Not more than **you** did!"

"I meant, **before** that. Like, when was the last time you got more'n a couple hours' nap. In a seat that don't really recline, and your kneecaps jammed up against the one in front of you? Hawai'i, right? Two, three **days** ago?"

"Yeahhh...that sounds about right," he was forced to admit.

"So you've had, like **maybe** six hours of sleep in the last sixty -- **I'd** ground you." Hansen shook his head. "You wanna go home an' turn in? I di'nt even **think** about that, before I dragged you out here--"

"No, it's okay -- I've got my second wind. Won't be **able** to fall asleep, now."

"You **_sure?"_**

"Yeah, I'm **fine** \-- just don't ask me to do calculus for the rest of the day."

The other pilot nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"What about **trigonometry?"** he asked.

And again, Stacker Pentecost found himself laughing helplessly at the humour of this man he'd known barely 24 hours, to whom he'd made a fool of himself yet never been made to **feel** the fool--

"Okay, no, they're **not** likely to harm her career or even mention it to her -- more like, let's pretend we didn't **notice** Pentecost running mad in California, ** _'hrmph, man must have got a touch of heatstroke, doncha know,' "_** he finished in a creditable 'Colonel Blimp' imitation. "But I **should** put my phones together, next chance we get. Just to be on the safe side."

"Right, see if they need somebody to help pass the cucumber sandwiches around," Hansen smirked, and he froze.

"What was that?"

"Oh, y'know, what you said about diplomatic affairs at the Consulates, all that."

"No, I meant what you **said** \-- that's from a book, right?"

"Um, yeah, maybe," the other pilot said, everything in his demeanour saying sudden wariness and disbelief, a reversal of sorts--

**_And here I was, trying to make sure he didn't SEE at the hotel--_ **

"I **have** that book, back in my flat." One reason he never entertained anyone, except for Luna and Tamsin, on the rare occasions when they were all on the same side of the Atlantic and within reasonable travelling distance for enough of a duration, was that most people considered it normal to have a few books (and maps) around, but to have nothing **but** books and maps, to have none of the usual acquisitions of trinket and souvenir and representative swag from abroad (see! we went, we conquered!) was to set off their alarms even **before** they started looking at the spines. "Have you got the newest one?"

"No," Hansen's expression was a study in transformations, passing from the cornered, edge-of-flight look of a man about to retreat into himself (there being nowhere **else** to flee) to a mixture of disbelieving awe and naked delight. "That's the **one** bad thing about livin' in Oz -- books get there late, an' they cost a **fortune** when we do get 'em."

 **"Not** the giant poison spiders."

"They're not **that** big. Besides, the giant snakes eat 'em all."

Pentecost ignored this nonsense, giving it the respect it deserved.

"It's in my bag, at the house. Would you like to **borrow** it? I haven't begun it yet," he offered, with only the slightest pang.

 ** _"Really?"_** It was clear that the nature of this offer was fully comprehended by his new friend. "What can I give you in return? My firstborn son? All he's good at is drooling, now, but he's got a tooth comin', won't be long--"

Carefully, deliberately, he put his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Herc," he said, "you gave me a field and a tower, in the middle of a storm over the ocean. I was **_off course_** , and you brought me in safely to a hangar -- you **don't owe _me anything."_**

"You only **think** I'm bein' generous," Hansen shook his head with a crafty grin, "but all along **I've** been thinking, 'Here's someone who can help me dig out me in-laws' back garden like I promised' -- **that's** been my secret strategy all along!"

"It doesn't work if you **tell** me about it," he replied pointedly, "and we're blocking traffic, people are starting to stare, and didn't we have a **bus** to catch?"

"Damn, I keep givin' my plans away. Got to remember not to **gloat** next time."

"Print the checklist out," Pentecost suggested as they reached the stop. "Where **are** we going, anyhow?"

"Remember what Charlie said about trails 'n museums? Well, I know a place that's **both** \-- an' get **this** , we can flip the bird at the Consulate General on the way there!"

All of which turned out to be true, as their route to the Sculpture Garden on a nearby university campus took them past the same block in which it stood, and once again the fact that there were no such things as tricorders or holocubes -- or **anything** less inconvenient than paper maps despite it being the 21st century now -- was brought home, as he'd thought it in a different direction entirely, and much further away.

It didn't help with disorientation either, that they had to get off the bus and stop at a chemist's, after his host got a very urgent text about something that his in-laws needed him to get, "Half a mo'--" and dashed in, then hurried back out while he was still pretending to send a text so as to avoid looking like he was loitering.

"Sorry," Hansen apologized, opening a pocket-sized sunscreen as they strolled toward the next stop, "but if I get burned again, I'll have three generations of Martins **yellin' at me** tonight -- 'cos they'll tell Angela an' she'll put the baby on to say 'Bad!' too -- What?"

For he had accidentally thrown another ball-bearing underfoot, metaphorically speaking, by handing the plastic tube over, without comment, with the effect of a punch in the solar plexus.

"Is that wrong? Only, I've got Indigenous mates in my squadron 'n they use it so--"

Wanting the whole world and everyone in it to just go away, Pentecost unclenched his teeth and said, "No, you're not **wrong** , you're just the first white person who's assumed I would."

 **"That** can't be right," the red-haired man blinked at him.

"Still true," he replied shortly, thinking, **_You MUST have heard the jokes, you MUST have heard them use 'didn't need sunscreen' as a clever way of signaling both our presence and the speaker's lack of 'political correctness' in one breath--_**

"Well **that's** terstupid," Hansen shook his head in disbelief, and dropped yet another destabilizing entity with a word.

 **"What** was that?"

"Terstupid? Like, **really** stupid, but shorter?" He shrugged. "It's just something you say, like **'tergreat,'** \-- just means **more** , really, but so's you know it's not **_sarcastic."_**

"But that's an Indonesian superlative," Pentecost said, frowning.

"Yeah, I guess? It's just somethin' we **say** in the RAAF," replied the Australian, looking worried, as though this was a surprise inspection that nobody had tipped him off to in advance...

"I didn't **know** about that -- interesting it's crossed over, the plasticity of language is quite something--"

And there was a split-conscious awareness that he was simultaneously being honest, **and** trying to put Hansen back at ease, by turning the topic to linguistics...

He didn't close the sunscreen when he'd finished with it, but handed it back, warning his companion, "You're wearing shorts and sandals -- if you don't do your **legs** you'll be 'tersorry' tonight," and steered them off the main pavement to a sort of windbreak formed by the architecture of the building where it faced the pedestrian crossing.

"Thanks!" the other said, sounding genuinely grateful for the reminder, not in the least bit resenting of it, and caught his arm to steady himself when he wobbled, bracing his foot against a bollard.

Pentecost froze, which was the best response under the circumstances, and reminded himself that this sort of casual backslapping contact had been the rule not the exception among his father's old mates (some of whom had been white), no matter they'd all been horrible people who hated everyone, especially their womenfolk and children, this was normal among adult men, and didn't always mean violence...

Looking up at the plate glass, he realized two things -- they really did look incongruous standing next to each other, a black soldier and a white surfer, neither one of them obviously servants of HM the Queen to the casual observer -- and at the same time they didn't look all **that** much out of place, in Los Angeles, on an increasingly busy morning. There **were** other men and women in dusty-hued uniforms, singly or with companions in either civilian or service dress themselves, and all of different races, going about their business without anyone taking notice one way or another.

"There! You saved **me** gettin' called on the carpet, now," Hansen grinned, putting the remainder of it in the pocket of his home-made cargo shorts.

" **And** a sunburn," he pointed out, thinking that was rather missing the point.

"Well, sure, but the yellin's worse!" and he nudged them both towards the next signpost for the Metro.

 ** _Covert ops,_** Pentecost thought, with a strange, unfamiliar, mischief-tinged delight -- ** _Just two locals out for a stroll,_** and when Hansen did do as he'd threatened when their bus passed the tall glass prism that housed the Consulate-General in the near distance he didn't even protest.

Eventually they got to their destination, and it wasn't the sort of museum he would have chosen on his own but with Hansen's enthusiastic, half-informed, half-inimitable running commentary on all of the works that they passed, he found it very entertaining all the same. Somehow his offhand remark about languages worked its way round again in his companion's conversation, striking a spark off the art history discourse that surrounded them.

"I never got that, 'plasticity' -- like, plastic doesn't **mean** that any more, that something can just be **_stretched_** like chewing gum, it means any number of things -- some of them stretchy, some not, take Bakelite, **that's** harder than a lot of rocks! -- but they keep usin' it in books 'n docos, like people won't go What the hell's that mean?"

"I **think** it's because no matter what its melting point, any plastic can still be melted down and reformed, infinitely. At least in theory," he conceded, not up enough on materials technology to be sure if that were actually the case, or if some were permanently affected by thermal treatment.

"So why not say, the **_metalness_** of language, hm?" Hansen raised his eyebrows in that way of his. "'Cos you can melt down bronze an' make new anything out of it, that's what happened to tons of ancient pieces, they all got melted down to make weapons from. Or hardware, too. 'S why there's nothing **left** of the Colossus of Rhodes--"

Somehow this, of all the things that the other had rattled off the past twenty hours or so, this one in particularly forced him into a juxtaposition, mentally, of the Australian with his other few, true friends, scattered by geography but bound by technology (and a love of similar books) and the thought that he had managed to avoid so far, of introducing them to each other -- or rather, avoidance of why he wished to avoid the actuality of it, and the complexity of shames.

Not that he felt ashamed to be seen with the other man here, now, at all -- but the idea of Hansen in the company of those quiet, cultured, restrained, and above all **_quiet_** souls disturbed him, because he -- no, he didn't **really** think that his host wouldn't behave appropriately, even in a diplomatic setting, he'd **seen** him be quiet and distant all that early part of yesterday at the ballgame (God, was it only yesterday?) but **that** wasn't what he wanted. Nor was it their way amongst themselves, either -- only by comparison to the other's boisterous enthusiasm!

And did he really think that any of their number would treat Hansen disrespectfully? Or even **judge** him, in silence, for being working-class, and rough-hewn instead of having polished away the splinters?

Would Chumley -- who had to smile and scrape to fat-headed Etonites of all generations patronizing him over their old school ties, all day **every** day and not just on occasion -- **smirk** at his plainspokenness? Or Terry, holding his breath every day that someone **_would_** tell, and lose him his rank and his livelihood, despite his technical talents in areas his Navy was desperate to recruit more of? Or Jiachen, for heaven's sake, first of them all who'd been drawn together by a love of books others called **childish?**

**_Surely not, and yet--_ **

It was painful, and humbling, and wrenching in several directions to contemplate -- and borrowing trouble, he reminded himself, and forced himself to pay heed to the present, and present company instead. (None of them **will** , when the time comes: he has always been good at reading signals, even when doubting his interpretation of them.)

When they'd both had enough -- by some unspoken agreement -- of pieces of metal or glass or stone that were interesting, attractive, incomprehensible, unspeakably bizarre, or all of them at once somehow, Hansen found them a place to have lunch not far from there, actually inside one of the university buildings, just boldly heading on in after asking directions from a passing student (or at least, someone wandering around on campus who knew more than they did) and ploughing through as if they belonged there too.

 **"Usually** we pack sandwiches, have a picnic on the grass," he explained, "but I wanted to get to the beach before the crowds. Should've thought of it last night, before we turned in," and Pentecost started to point out that half-past-three in the morning was probably **not** the best time to start 'fossicking about' in the kitchen, even if one **was** on very good terms with one's in-laws -- and then he realized that this was Hansen's idea of a joke, and gave him a quelling look.

(Well, he **tried** , at least -- the other man only raised his eyebrows and gave him a wide-eyed look right back, innocence attempted but **not** successfully.)

The student café turned out not to care if you were a student or not -- really, security here was shockingly lax -- so long as you had money to pay for your meal. It was much better than jokes on American television and around Georgetown would indicate, although Hansen had disdainful things to say about the avocados and kiwi fruit at the buffet (which seemed to be more national pride than any actual problem with them, so far as Pentecost could tell.)

"So, **can** I ask another question?"

He didn't tense up so much this time, although he had no idea what the Australian was going to come out with next, only replying solemnly, "You may. I promise no **answers** , though."

Hansen grinned, though there was a slight apprehensive edge to it.

"What you said -- about karaoke last night, when we went in -- **_was_** that a _Buffy_ joke?"

And -- perhaps prematurely -- he relaxed again, thinking **_Of course,_** before correcting him that it was the sequel instead. (Surrounded by art students as they were, some few of whom were actually studying as they ate, theirs was **not** the most eccentric /eclectic conversation by a very great distance.)

They spent the next hour talking about old television shows, and newer ones, and how the best programmes were always cancelled for terrible ones that inevitably sank without a trace, and whether there was a more wonderful character in the history of science fiction series than Aeryn Sun the Radiant -- Hansen **claimed** to have talked his way on set during filming first season due to knowing a guy who did lighting for the network that sponsored it, but he wasn't sure if that was mere leg-pulling along the "All Australians know each other!" line.

This, inevitably, led to ways of hacking regional settings on DVD players (and how not to have to!) and why in general it was that big international corporations refused to sell things which large numbers of would-be customers around the world were **_begging_** to be allowed to purchase, on the grounds that it cost too much to be worth their while -- and then turned around to spend even more money suing or otherwise hounding the desperate who'd found workarounds...

"Crazy mixed-up world," Hansen shook his head knowingly.

"That **can't** just be the answer to **_everything."_**

"Why not? Works for **me** ," and he followed highly-localized custom by tossing his sandwich wrapper across the room into the open-topped rubbish bin.

Pentecost restrained any competitive impulse, instead suggesting another coffee, and disposing of his own paper along the way to the counter. But his efforts to reciprocate were foiled by Hansen's insistence on paying for both of their drinks, instead of allowing him to stand this round, and this continued generosity, far beyond a night-at-the-pub by now, was beginning to make him uncomfortable.

Trying to make a joke of it, he said, lightly, "You've got to stop paying for everything -- people will think we're on a date," as they stood side by side at the console where cafés these days sensibly allowed people to fix their drinks to their own tastes, instead of getting them wrong more often than not behind the counter!

"So? Told you **my** outfit don't mind," shrugged the red-haired man, taking the lid off a shaker of something too light to be pepper and sniffing at it before adding it to his cup.

 ** _Who puts nutmeg in their coffee?_** Pentecost thought, noting the label Hansen had overlooked, **_why would you DO such a thing?_** and also noticing the light caught by the silver ring, on his companion's left hand.

"Your wife might," he said, very dry.

"Nah, I told her I'd rescued a downed RAF pilot -- 'n **she** said I should bring you home for tea and keeps when I sent her your picture."

There were **so** many things awry with that sentence that it was only almost by chance that Pentecost hit on the last of them first.

"You took a picture of me? **_When?"_**

"When we were leavin' the hotel, when I was textin' about my change of plans? Why? Shouldn't I have?"

 ** _So much for discretion,_** he thought, **_if I were trying to avoid surveillance -- if this were a real covert operation, if I had a dead-drop to make in this place! --_** and shook his head.

"Why not?"

An editorial's worth of opinions on creeping surveillance back home (always in the name of safety from terrorism, while waging war on the neighbors near or far!) collided with an uncomprehending **_You were going to be an art student, how can you NOT know about legal issues and photo releases and the media?_** before hitting an outraged **_You're not a goddamn paparazzo!_** and jamming up like the London Congestion Zone.

 ** _Idiot,_** he told himself in the wake of that -- **_you know very well people take pictures of their pals when they're out on the town and post them on social sites, you were WORRYING about it only now, and what does that say, that you ONLY worried about accidental background shots -- and hostile surveillance, when invited out for a drink?_**

"Look -- it's okay, just -- **don't** do it again without asking."

(This attempted rule will last no longer than tomorrow evening, and Charlie Martin snapping a photo of his wife brandishing the sink attachment at her son-in-law as he held up a large serving platter for a shield against her threats, while their house-guest stood by with a pained, yet speculative look at the dish towel in his hands, as though wondering which side **duty** obligated him to take -- it will **never** become second-nature, this casual ease with which people treat imaging technology among friends and even acquaintances, but he manages the semblance of it convincingly, in time.)

Since Hansen still seemed concerned, in that worried-without-understanding-what's-wrong way, he went out of his way to try to put him at his ease, detouring them through the building so they could peruse the miniature exhibits along the corridors and glance in on the open studios -- there were **always** classes going on at large universities like this, even in the summer -- and so letting his companion return to his favourite subject...or second-favorite, or possibly third-best, since whether art or rock music or California was it seemed to depend on the moment!

It hadn't escaped his notice that he still couldn't **tell** if the other man had been flirting with him, or just **teasing** him.

He wasn't naive enough not to have recognized discreet (as well as **not** so discreet) passes and flirtations, over the years, from white men and women both, some of them not so much flirtations as **offers** , but there had never been a time when it hadn't been unsettling, again not from naivete but because there was always something unwholesome, unseemly, **_impersonal_** about it. Nothing was a bigger turn-off than being pruriently dehumanized, at least to him -- and here, he felt none of that from Hansen, and **also** none of the equally dehumanizing in its way pedestal-worship of last night--

There was a humour in his manner, but it didn't feel like mockery -- or rather it was a mockery that had no burning heat in it, only illusory (foxfire!), and most importantly included himself, so that if he were serious in his hints -- well, could you call them hints when they were overt statements? -- that he found him attractive, it didn't necessarily **mean** anything. Not even with the confusion of signals, between the casual physical contact -- not strange, not out of the ordinary, between ordinary friends of the same race at least -- and the constant invocations of his wife's name, her presence like an invisible sword keeping any rival at bay--

(He did wonder, because it was impossible not to, what would have followed if Hansen **had** been single, when he'd met him yesterday (only yesterday?) --but then if he had been, they wouldn't have been in the same place at the same time under the same circumstances, so that was a **pointless** course to follow.)

What to make of all the combined Hansen-Martin family apparently discussing him as some sort of Adonis, he didn't even **_know_** \-- he ought to find it humiliating, he supposed, but it struck him as strangely whimsical, instead. (To be looked at with **admiration** , that had no need to **_diminish_** in retaliation for that involuntary ceding of power? What sort of allure **that** might hold was almost too obvious to need contemplation--)

 ** _The rules are different under the hills,_** his too-active subconscious helpfully pointed out, **_things that don't matter here are mortal insults there -- never ask a name, not even after you're married, never offer cold iron, not so much as a tenpenny nail -- and vice versa, beheading's a game, and kisses don't matter, only lies--_**

**_But spirits don't walk in the noonday sun, right?_ **

There were all those other stories of fox-folk, the ones who **weren't** wicked or cruel or justifiably vengeful, who were just curious about humanity, who saw a kindred hunted spirit in someone having a rough go of it, and took them under their wing, so to speak! There were stories like that on the Anglo-Celtic side, too -- just not as **many** of them.

But even a well-meaning fae could wreak havoc, their mortal drinking companions finding a hundred years had passed at the party, or their winnings turned to leaves after spending them, landing them in prison...

 ** _This is stupid,_** and he sighed. Hansen was just an odd duck, one whose backgrounds were enough at odds with each other to confuse a reading -- and wasn't **he** the one to talk, in that regard? -- because he was open enough and uncareful enough to reveal them...at least, he'd done so, **after** Pentecost had backed him up in turn, taken him under his own protection, and welcomed him into his life, even by that tiniest margin.

It went both ways, from the beginning, he realized -- the **advantage** of hospitality, of home turf, might be the Australian's, but if **he** hadn't drawn him along, hadn't taken up that invitation -- had, instead, **insisted** on returning to his hotel and retiring for the night (to what, pace, and fume, and try to read, and fail? Damn good thing he **hadn't** , all told!) then **nothing** else, no more than what he **now** saw was nervous, silence-filling chatter on the bus, would ever have passed between them.

 ** _This is no less my fault -- not just a bystander caught up in a whirlwind, I MADE the decision to dare the gale_** , but instead of a dreary apprehension of things going wrong as usual, he felt the spark of adrenaline again -- not as unsettling as under last night's artificial stars within the glittering grove of unliving trees, out here under broad daylight and green growing branches, but real for all that -- a sense that here was both adventure, and a companion for that adventure, and the two were the **same** , as well...

It didn't matter, he decided once again of unknowable postulates -- whether Hansen did or didn't think of him "that way," he'd been a perfect host, a perfect bunkmate, and alert to anything that made him uncomfortable, even if he didn't understand the reason for it.

**_I trust him, with my safety, my reputation, and my secrets -- at least the ones that really matter! -- waking or sleeping -- even if he isn't human at all..._ **

"So, where to next?"

"Well, I promised you wilderness trails, and you, you di'nt **believe** me, did you? We're takin' the bus to this park due west of us, 'n then you'll see," Hansen said with a sort of smug cheerfulness that could have been really irritating, if he hadn't seemed so much like a child with a secret.

"Park? A **city** park?" But the Australian only laughed, and made them detour first to **_another_** chemist's (one of the big American chains that sold everything, like a miniature department store with a prescription counter at the back, to purchase water bottles with carabiners, because he'd forgotten to bring them this morning.)

" 'M not **usually** this disorganized," he admitted, "--maybe two hours of sleep wasn't enough after all," and this time his companion only agreed, out loud, instead of worrying about what odds this might be part of some covert scheme to draw out and dispose of a wayward analyst!

The only thing that **did** bother him, at all, was Hansen's continued insistence on paying for **everything** even after he'd objected -- though he managed to thwart it **once** , by sheer virtue of speed and blocking him on the steps of the bus to pay for both of theirs first -- but it was clear that this outpouring of hospitality was something **extremely** important to the RAAF man, now that he was repeating it in sobriety and daylight, so he only resolved to make it up when and how he might in the future.

And then they were at this mysterious park, right at the edge of the city where it was hemmed in by the highlands to the east -- and the initial impression of it, with its stone sign, statuary and well-trimmed lawns, did nothing to convey any sense of wilderness anywhere about.

**_Well, Hyde Park used to be a haunt of highwaymen and wild beasts -- but THAT was long before Marble Arch!_ **

It even held the city's zoo, like Regents' Park, over to one side, and a carousel -- and then they came to the end of the gardens, and there--

"They just put a gate in front of the mountains and called it a park?" and his guide beamed with delight.

"I **told** you," as though he'd made it all himself.

"So you did."

"Bigger on the inside, eh? This is the best view," Hansen said, gesturing upslope, "all of LA, you **won't** believe it till you see it, up top Mt. Hollywood. There's a great planetarium, too, we always go there -- but they say it's closed for renovations this year. But the walk 'n the view, they're **still** worth the trip,"

"Lead on," Pentecost replied, thinking that well, he'd **_planned_** on hiking mountains, he just hadn't been expecting to **get** it this time after all!

The trails were steep in parts, but in decent shape, fairly well groomed -- this was plainly still parkland, not true wilderness, though near enough -- and the Australian pilot noted how some of the greenery was starting to come back in areas that had been burned over in recent summers' bad wildfires. This was something else that America, at least in the western parts, had in common with Australia, and the Atlantic side shared with Europe, an advantage for all their damp days -- though who knew how long that would last?

"The Martins say nobody knows **what** the hell they're doin', **or** they can't get enough of the ones in charge all pointed the same direction, to get any sort of handle on it," he sighed, pointing out over the fjords -- no, **canyons** , **_here_** \-- with a branch he'd found by the side and trimmed down to a rough hiking staff with the folding knife Pentecost hadn't even realized he had on him, before that.

"Those? Eucalyptus, same's back home. Pure kerosene inside -- I think you call it paraffin? Burn like birthday candles," and his expression was hard and tight and fierce again, but this time his companion saw that it was distress, and frustration, not disdain for the world.

"Can't those be taken down? **Preventative** measures?"

"Yeah, but nobody's willin' to give **theirs** up, then they catch fire an' everything with it."

"Damn."

"It does grow **back** , though," and they continued up the switchbacks, passing in and out of shade and sunlight, the air sharp with scents that weren't all petrol fumes or hot tar up here, the taste of it different from any other place, every place having its own flavour, the trees and dust unique to each location in ways that no words like "piney" or "acrid" could adequately differentiate from another.

And on the way they talked, randomly, of whatever came into their minds -- and if one man spoke more than the other, both of them **_listened_** , the whole time.

"Mount Hollywood -- Not **much** of a summit, but you c'n see everything!"

They leaned on the fence and watched birds dart up and back down into the foliage below, like flying fish from an alien ocean, while the afternoon slipped by at nearly a thousand miles per hour... He tried to work out **exactly** what the speed would be, at this latitude, but found that trigonometry was indeed beyond him, at present.

"Did you bring us the long way round?" Pentecost asked after a while, having considered the position of the sun and the relative angles of the major highways and taller buildings, and begun to construct a mental map of the city that related to his experiences from ground level. "Or is there no access from that side?" pointing in the direction from which they'd initially come, he thought.

"Yeah, there is, but it's just not the same comin' in the side entrance. You kinda need to see it from base camp first, to get the full experience. --D'you mind?" apparently only now realizing that this might be taken as a practical joke, i.e., **badly.**

"An unnecessary five klicks uphill on a summer day? For the sake of **_drama?"_** he retorted coolly, lifting his brow and watching Hansen begin to look uncertain before finishing, **"Well** worth the admission price," and enjoyed both the other man's relieved grin, and the strange experience of teasing someone back, knowing that it was **safe** to do so.

(There would probably be some regrets, tomorrow, though -- he was beginning to see the Martins might have a point, if this was a mere **nothing** of a stroll!)

"Hm. We didn't bring a flag **or** a plaque."

"Rubbish explorers we make," Hansen agreed, sadly shaking his head. Then he looked at the improvised hiking staff in his hand -- looked at Pentecost, who looked away -- sighed -- then went looking for a rock.

Other ramblers who arrived on the scene shortly thereafter found two tall men, one in tan camouflage fatigues and combat boots, solemnly hammering a rough wooden stick into the dirt beside the overlook fence. Those who came along after they'd left, and went see what it was all about, found the following scratched into the sand under it

**POLAR EXPOTITION**

and the date, with an arrow pointing to the pole, and nothing to indicate the ages of the explorers who'd left it except the overlarge footprints beside.

Even so, for the most part no one connected the "North Pole" there with the two hikers sitting on the ravine bridgehead far below on the western side of the mountain, admiring the sunset in companionable silence.

The older, taller, and more serious-minded of the two looked out at Los Angeles overflowing the valley at their feet, and felt dislocated from all his certainties, and was okay with that.

 ** _I thought I understood about detachment and illusion and holding to nothing worldly,_** he thought with a laugh that should have been bitter, **_but I knew nothing of it-- it was just that I couldn't SEE anything, and you can't desire what you don't know exists--_**

**_No, but you can HUNGER for it, without knowing what you're starved for..._ **

How they'd **laugh** , to know how easily he'd been 'made,' how all it had taken for him to betray himself completely was one white pilot, claiming **friendship** with him--

No, **_NOT_ claim** , not **_pretend_** \-- was it shameful to have been caught by the real thing? Only if it truly was **weakness** to trust at all, to be anything but the completely unaffected, unchangeable monolith of **certitude** that was the Platonic ideal of the British secret agent--

 ** _Compromised,_** he thought again ** _, flawed and broken and faking it for the sake of who, really?_** \-- and then he thought of the music last night, and the words of forever wars and despair and hope his friend had sung in one of his many efforts to impress and win his approval last night:

 _Ring the bells that still can ring,_  
      _Forget your perfect offering,_  
      _There is a crack, a crack in everything--_  
      _That's how the light gets in..._

 ** _I don't serve the pious killers any more--_** and it was truth, though he didn't know **how** he would make it so -- but he knew that he **wasn't** going to keep on as he had, doing his best to mitigate the damage because what else **was** there to do? all the while resigned to helplessness in the long run as in the short, and finding such consolation in the circle of the like-minded as they could muster, shoulders turned to the storms outside.

Because somehow, without knowing what he was doing, Herc Hansen had laid the world at his feet as a gift, and all he could do was **accept** it all, in charge--

 ** _All of it,_** he vowed, watching the sun fall in a haze of blood-orange and molten gold from one peacock-hued ocean above down into another that washed on shores he knew and loved too well, while the city below glittered and shifted like a hive of diamond bees, or veins filled with cells whose qi could be seen with the naked eye, and he loved it even more than he had last night, looking out over it now, cold sober--

**_MINE, now. As I'm theirs, now--_ **

So **easy** , treason turned out to be! **Defend** them, certainly -- ** _but even against their own officers, if I must,_** Pentecost thought with an inward smile, **_against their own allies, even against themselves_** \-- no more patient acquiescence to the Pax Americana-that-wasn't, even if realistically his chances of making any difference in the end weren't any better than Lionel Mandrake's--

**_So it's a slow burn, not one quick blaze of nuclear obliteration followed by the ice of Fimbul winter -- it's still the death of a thousand wildfires, the way it's going. And oh, but there are those who want more, who CRAVE that old burnt offering we'd thought we'd defused!_ **

He'd heard them, on the radio, on the television, and in between the newsprint lines, on this continent **and** back home as well, though the words were less heated, the rhetoric more veiled, who'd prefer the **Americans** to light the blaze, that they scattered the straw for...

**_Who'd like to torch it ALL -- all that world down there, starting with that city first of all, because they can't COMMAND it..._ **

_"There's no such thing as a **winnable** war,_  
      _It's a **lie** we don't believe any more--"_

So one of the young girls had sung last night, not even old enough to have been **born** when the Bomb was still an ending everyone feared deep down, with her heart in her hand and her certainty of doom in her eyes -- and they were wiser than anybody in Whitehall or Washington knew, he thought, these children who didn't believe any "home before **_next_** year's leaves fall!" tosh any more.

 ** _I need to find out what that song was -- besides Prokofiev,_** he thought, and then remembered he **had** someone he could ask, now, without feeling shamed for it.

"Last night, at the karaoke -- there was a **song** , it went--" and he hummed the refrain, the **_only_** part that had been **familiar** of all the rock tunes.

" 'The Russians,' " said Hansen.

"Yes, the one about the Russians," he returned, patiently.

"Nah, sorry, that's the **name** \-- 'The Russians,' that's all. 'S Sting."

"Ah. --I've **heard** of ** _him,"_** and the other man chuckled -- not seeming to realize what an admission that had been, passed off as a joke -- saying, "Well, he **_is_ pretty famous."**

And there was a moment when Pentecost could have been irritated, could have turned away, turned inward again in contemplation of his own areas of expertise, shut him out, shut down himself -- and instead he said, "Not in the field of military aviation, he **isn't."**

Hansen blinked, and then screwed up his eyes as though he'd gotten smoke in them -- and then gave up, threw his head back and roared. After he'd finally stopped, for the last time, he looked at him, still shaking with laughter -- checked his watch -- and looked back up.

"D'you know, at this time yesterday, I **still** thought you had **_no_** sense of humour? I can't **remember** the last time I've been that far wrong about **_anything."_**

The feeling of heat in his face that wasn't from anger or humiliated shame was a new and unfamiliar sensation, but he was finding it quite an enjoyable, if unnerving one.

**_Admiration's but air and wind, so all the old writers said, playing on the word 'vanity' -- but how much of that was only sour grapes, in the end?_ **

"Well, you're among a very select crowd-- not more than a dozen **worldwide**. Far less people laugh at my jokes than know what I really do for a living."

"Maybe they just don't **dare** ," the Australian retorted, raising an eyebrow.

"It's...possible."

**_More than possible, even..._ **

And he realized there was a truth that needed to be told, now, even if it made things awkward. "You know, there **was** a moment this morning, and **I must apologize** for it, but -- I **nearly** killed you -- I thought you were a double agent but I didn't know **whose** , or what you were after, and...I'm not **used** to being off balance."

**_I THOUGHT Whitehall thought I was hopelessly compromised...but it was only my own guilt speaking there!_ **

Hansen snorted.

"Yeah, I **realized** that it wasn't maybe the **best** idea I've had, challenge you to a sparring match after I blew your cover -- well, **whichever** of us did that, like I said, there's **rumours** goin' around but none of those numpties were takin' em **seriously**."

Pentecost looked at the fiery horizon, or technically, away from his companion's amused expression.

"When, exactly, **did** you figure this out?"

"About the time you were leaning on my windpipe -- figured it out then, 'cos I'm **quick** like that."

"And -- you didn't **say _anything_** about it, afterwards? Why **not?"**

Hansen shrugged.

"Knew you weren't **tryin'** to kill me, seein' as you were pullin' your punches! So, di'nt seem like much **point** , after that."

**_Saw right through you, didn't he, Mr. Pentecost! Pathetic--_ **

"--Besides, the **scary** part was when you freaked an' **stopped breathin'** for ten, twenty seconds there. Thought you were havin' a coronary or an aneurysm or something like that." He smiled, not a wicked grin this time but a small, gentle smile that stung sharp as tamarind, like lemon juice on a cut. **_"Thanks_** for not breakin' my neck this morning."

**_Advance, and be recognized--_ **

"Any time, Mr. Hansen. Any time."

"So do we gotta refight that match to the death for the sake of honour?

"That depends -- are we in a Hollywood film about **undead Scotsmen?"** That had been inescapable, at Lossiemouth, a cross-cultural trainwreck of epic proportions that nobody admitted to actually enjoying in the least (but it was clear that not every cry of "There can **be -- Only --ONE**!" was completely ironic, always) and someone's rendition of that theme last night had brought it all back.

 ** _I wonder if Sanada-sama has watched that?_** making a mental note to ask him next week, because he rather thought the elder envoy would appreciate the exquisite awfulness of it, magic katanas and all -- **_and we certainly could do with a laugh, dealing with DC!_**

"Gawd, I hope not -- do you **know** how expensive real swords **are?** Y'think mess dress costs a fortune? 'N they're just ceremonial, them parade jobs. I work **hard** not to get promoted, y'know!"

Pentecost tried not to laugh -- tried harder -- failed abysmally and roared till he teared up and still couldn't stop laughing, laughed until breathing became a problem and his diaphragm ached, laughing still--

And the red-haired man casually draped an arm over his shoulders, not as he'd done it to him on the ride from the pub, in the haze of alcohol and other elevated spirits, but in perfect sobriety, the way brothers did, the way the pilots in those old faded photos of the half-forgotten squadrons stood before their Hurricanes and Spitfires.

 ** _Fire,_** Pentecost told himself, more in certainty than in dread, **_if I bring him into our circle he'll be foxfire, light and heat and change -- and destruction, for we won't endure as we've been these last three years --_** and then he thought, ** _but it's already too late, it's already DONE, for I'm not the same man who woke up yesterday--_**

"Gawd, that view! Not sorry I dragged you **up** here, are you?" And Pentecost shook his head. "Looks like a dragon's hoard, right, like you could just reach down an' pick it up in your hand!"

**_\--And the devil, taking him up into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time...!_ **

"What you thinkin' about?"

"World domination," he said, perfectly truthfully, perfectly misleadingly, perfectly seriously.

"Pffh, seems like a lot of **work,"** the other sighed. "You wanna get a bite to eat so we can get home before the buses stop runnin'?"

"Sure," caught by the strangeness of that one word, **_home_** \-- and the pattern was already set, how **no** request the one should ever make, the other wouldn't **yield** to, and no **order** that the latter would give, that the former would **not** obey...

They wandered down the way to the car park where other hikers were waiting for the bus -- Hansen pointed out this and that landmark in the lights below, and tried to relate everything to their wanderings today and yesterday, and Pentecost listened with a half-aware contemplation that would serve him better on **recall** than trying to cram it all in like a panicked student the night before exams.

There was something important he wanted to tell him, but didn't want to interrupt his friend, not when he was so obviously enjoying showing off his adopted hometown!

And then the bus came, and the other man was settling their fare before he could get his wallet out, and refusing to take any reimbursement since this was all **his** idea anyhow, and he forgot it again, and after that they ended up at a place where you could buy food off trucks, which he did at the other's recommendation, and all of it was good, though much of it was strange, and strangely reminiscent of things he'd had in Jakarta and Manila and Singapore but **not** the same as any of them.

And then they rambled some more, eating out of tinfoil, while other people hurried along on their own affairs, and the lights of traffic and store sign blurred into a kind of glowing structure, walls of energy like some rendering of subatomic structures, constantly in flux yet enduring despite their motility.

But once they got back to Pacific Palisades, it came back to him -- or was recalled to him, rather -- while they sat outside with a last couple of beers in the darkened garden, so as not to disturb Herc's in-laws asleep with their talking, and regretted the invisibility of the stars in city lights, next to the little fish pond with its not-quite koi and miniature waterfall, surrounded by the fragrance of lantanas, which Herc said were a weed back home in Brisbane, and here were a beloved butterfly-attracting ornamental, and a deadly poison to nearly everything else.

There was something **profound** in that, he mused, but damned if he could figure out **what!** And then his musings were interrupted as the other man asked, with a slight hesitance, just a little too offhand as though he weren't aware it was an intrusion, and thus an invitation to affront, and hence rejection, "D'you mind givin' me your email, so we c'n keep in touch after our leaves are up?"

"Not at all. I'm going to give you a list of **other** contacts, too, people I know and trust from here to Brussels, in either direction. If you **ever** need **_anything_** , you **or** your family, tell them you're **my** friend -- and they will do **whatever they can** to help."

The odd warm-cool light of the solar lanterns around the patio caught the Australian's look of thoughtful surprise -- but he only said lightly, "So do **I** get a double-oh-number now?"

"Oh, it's not like **that** \-- they're not in -- well, yes they **are** , some, but--" He shook his head, sighed, started over again. "They like the same **books** we do. They're **_safe."_**

 ** _"Ah."_** And he rather thought that Herc Hansen understood exactly what that signified.

"Look, it's stupid and complicated and -- **mostly _stupid_** , and you're **not** cleared for this, and I'm **going** to tell you **anyhow."**

"Oh?"

"You **already _know_** it."

**_Because I lost my wits this morning and freaked out on you, instead of playing along!_ **

"Yes, I'm Intel, **_not_** just someone who does **data entry** for Intel, and no, it's not **really** a secret, although it isn't something those 'numpties' as you so precisely describe them, should be talking about **anywhere** , let alone at a sports event or-- that's **not** discretion, and they're not going to be **happy** when I make my report." It was probably not the most enlightened thing, to enjoy the thought of that, as much as he did.

**_Too bad!_ **

"But -- that **is** my cover, second level. Planespotting. Numbers games. **What else _is_** a junior aide to the air attach goin' to be doing abroad, any road?"

"What's the **first** level?"

"Diplomacy. Aide to air attaches, or courier for special dispatches, or someone who stands around and holds up the walls at HQ, in case they might need someone to fly some Personage around, or show them around the air shows, or make small talk at a banquet."

"Ah. Right. **_Or_** squire ambassadorial types around the dance floor?"

**"Exactly."**

"So what d'you **really** do, eh?"

"Told you -- planespotting. Numbers games."

"Huh." There was a pensive silence, and then he asked, "Nobody **ever** figures out, that you're a much higher-level analyst than you make yourself out to be?"

Instead of answering that, Pentecost gestured at the little LED lamps, saying, " **These** look like something out of _Star Trek,_ don't they? To think you can get this kind of **space-age _technology_** at any shop in the high-street, these days," and Hansen frowned.

"Does changin' the subject **usually** work, at the Consulate-General?"

"Well, yes," he replied, completely unfazed, "but that's **partly** because people who go into the diplomatic services get **trained** to be **_discreet_** \--which as we've seen is not always sufficiently conveyed to RAF and RAAF personnel, which has frequently led to **headaches** on the diplomatic front. At least the **RAF** indiscretions do, for me."

Hansen shook his head solemnly.

"So **that's** what you do -- white out the sonic booms an' near misses from the newspaper articles? Must be **hard** , what with all the media goin' **online** these days."

**_Oh, this was FUN!_ **

"Ah, that's easy, it's just **hacking**."

At that, the other pilot burst out laughing, trying to keep the volume down, as he crowed, "You are **so** full of it! D'you got to **work** at it, or does it just come **naturally** , stringin' nonsense together till it **sounds** like sense?"

"I **haven't** lied to you, Herc -- not once these past two days. I **may** have omitted certain key points and phrased others in **misleading** ways..." he trailed off, raising his own brows in a humorous gesture, "--but I haven't spun **you** any webs of nonsense, yet."

Herc Hansen leaned back in the little patio chair and struggled again with laughter, which itself was an effect of emotions far stronger -- bewilderment, and confusion, and a certainty that he'd done something far more life-changing than raise a minor fuss in front of a bar, last night.

The RAF man had told him he'd nearly died that morning, and on one level he knew it was true, but he could neither feel retroactive fear or animosity over it, it was just something that had **happened** , as if he'd walked carelessly out on the flight line and almost under the tyres of a 707. He'd managed to raise a false flag without realizing it, and Pentecost -- had reacted quite mildly, **given** that trigger, had neither hurt him nor held it against him.

Perhaps it had been then, or perhaps it had come some time later, when they were rambling the parks and he'd realized that his companion had not once tried to put him in his place, as an officer, as a man -- that there'd been no competition in **any** of his conversation, not even the friendly sort he and his brother engaged in, that he simply **_listened_** (and yes, that **would** make for a good spy, but really, who was going to spy on a refuelling tanker pilot? Though he supposed that he **might** know something about an important rendezvous by way of orders, but in terms of anything big, there would be much more likely candidates for it) without judgement or **dismissal**.

Probably, though, when you came right down to it, it had happened when he'd slipped somehow from irritation at his fellows to shame to pity for the quietly-dignified Englishman to a **_No, this is where your fucking party ends!_** rage that had completely stopped answering the rudder -- and the man he'd thought to stand up for had stood **him** down and walked him out of there before anyone got punched or put in handcuffs!

And everything since? had just been bringing into focus the terrifying fact that he **could** see himself following this man into the teeth of the razor wire and the guns both long-range and short, because he **could not** see Stacker Pentecost meekly taking his unit over the top time and again into a futile slaughter -- far less sending them over via field telephone, safely far from the lines at HQ.

But you couldn't just **say** that to someone, at least not if you'd only met them yesterday, at least not at this level of sobriety...

"So," he said instead, cheerfully, "how's about you **_don't lie to me,_ ** again?"

But he **worried** about that request, when the other man's expression grew somber, even pained, and he answered with a razor-light touch, "Ah, well -- I bounce the wingcounts and serials off the HUMINT and vice versa -- synthesize a comprehensive reading out of the fragments -- what's lies, what's truth, what's complete and utter nonsense -- being, as you've noted **quite** the expert at that -- and what might or might **not** be in some way connected to reality, on a scale of one to ten -- and then... I put it all in a report and shoot it upstairs and sometimes...sometimes it doesn't get **completely** ignored."

**_That was MUCH too much truth for only two beers,_** thought Pentecost, in the silence that followed.

"Wow. Want me to come by an' kick 'em down the stairs for you?" The way his host said this, in such a completely reasonable-sounding, even light-hearted way, belied the undertone in it, even as he went on, "You just say, 'Oh, **he's** from Down Under, y'know how they are -- wild men 'n criminals the lot of 'em,' " but even though it was too dark to discern his expression at the angle he leaned, the little blue-white light making his eyes hollows in a skull-mask, his tense position said an anger that belied the joke.

It was dismaying, that this new-minted friend was more indignant on his behalf for his wasted efforts, than he himself had been for **years**.

"No, that's all right. **Not** worth your damage. It...pays the bills." His bank account had just the right amount of money, neither too much nor too little to raise alarms in either direction, as an officer and a wastrel **or** one with **_other_** sources of income, source unknown; he withdrew the typical average for a single male officer with a moderate entertainment budget -- none of these in round or identical sums, of course -- and then dispersed whatever was left in anonymous silence wherever it seemed to be needed, living a far more frugal lifestyle than anyone suspected (or at least, so he hoped.)

It often felt to him like hush money paid to his own conscience, but what **else** could one do, to make up for the way of the world?

"If you say so, mate. But **nobody** you work with, on a regular basis -- **none** of them's guessed you're not **just** a spreadsheet jockey? If they even figure **that** out?"

"Eh -- I **am** a spreadsheet jockey," he shrugged, scraping the rounded glass of the bottle back and forth over the patio tabletop. "I don't make waves, I'm good at fading into the background, socially--"

Hansen snorted.

"And most people see no more than they care to see. Part of my job's to be **_decorative_** \-- hence **yesterday** , 'We can manage diversity too!' -- so people don't think any more of my presence than that."

 **"People** \-- you mean English, an' Americans, **white** ones. So--what do the **_Chinese_** think you're there for?"

And once again Pentecost wondered what he'd got himself into, that this man heard all the things he wasn't saying.

**_Either THIS gweilo is one in a thousand -- TEN thousand -- to see through all my defences, OR he's a political officer after all -- probably one of ours, because they think I've been compromised -- and they're right--_ **

**_But I think the odds are rather better he's a kami than a spy!_ **

"That...depends on the person. **Most** people don't pay attention, not past the conjurer's tricks."

The silence deepened, and he looked up at the halogen haze of the LA night overhead.

"Some do, of course. Very few **care** , even in their military. Everyone's got their own problems, **much** more interesting than some stranger's. Kids in school, sick parents, cousins out of work -- I hear all about it."

 ** _It's far more interesting than my own life,_** he doesn't say.

"But a few **do?"**

It took him several moments, to answer that one, and the words are clipped when he does.

"I've had -- job offers. **Hinted** at."

"But you **haven't** defected."

"No." Putting it out there in the negation of it, made it suddenly so much more **possible** than it had been even when he was the recipient of such overtures. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.

"How come?"

He shrugged, but the other man only waited him out.

 **"Family honour,** I guess...Eh," he shook his head, "my granddad never wanted **any** of us to wear the uniform..."

**_Why AM I doing this?_ **

"I like the **flying**...don't get to do much **of** it, any more, though..."

He looked up at the sky, but there were no more answers in the changeless electric aurora than before, not even landing lights through the haze, to be seen -- drew a deep breath, and made the old joke of it, that really wasn't.

 ** _"Took the shilling,"_** and there was a finality in the sigh that followed.

"An' that's **all** it takes," and there was an odd challenging edge again, in the Australian's tone.

"For now," and he leaned sideways across the table, giving the man a considering look in the gloaming. **_"If_** I didn't know better, I'd think you **were** a spy after all, either **ours** or someone else's. But you're being a little too **obvious** for a political officer, I suspect -- and I **know** you're not miked, not after that scuffle in the salt water this morning."

"They make 'em **really tiny** these days. I **_could_** be," Hansen shrugged. "I could be recording you **on my phone** , for that matter."

Even in this poor light, he could see the manic, cheerful lift of his eyebrows, and a warmth better than brandy's ran through his veins at the exhilarating feeling of choosing to trust someone who **could** be deceiving you, while being sure that they **weren't** \-- it was like a dead-stick landing, the controlled fall through air silent but for the rush of the wind, in that moment before the wheels made contact, only stretching out forever--

"Well, Mr. Hansen-- **that** is a risk I am determined to run," and he picked up his glass and the toast came to him unbidden. "To **now** , and to **here** , and **to hell** with **_tomorrow!"_**

 ** _"Hear, hear!"_** the other man said, but quietly.

The week that followed was extraordinarily strange, like a staged re-enactment of Normal Life, in which people pleasantly greeted each other in the morning and ate breakfast while reading the newspaper and nobody threw anything or held their breaths hoping that nothing would get thrown, and were kind and pleasant to each other throughout the day -- did **normal things** like go off to work, or to the shops, or out to dinner, or fixed up a sagging garden shed, without screaming or swearing or stomping off in a rage to the pub, or locking themselves in a room and crying for the rest of the night -- and from what Hansen had said at The First Circle, it was **as** strange to him, too.

It was strange to come and go from a home without harassment, to be able to spend a holiday as he pleased -- granted, dependent on Herc's obliging nature and his in-laws' generosity, but he didn't miss the hiking at all, though he'd counted on it as a way to decompress between the chaos of RIMPAC and meetings in Hawai'i, and plunging into the whirlpool of the capitol of this country again.

There was plenty of walking, to be sure -- the Martins hadn't been joking when they said that their son-in-law could run most people into the ground -- but that was fine, it was **less** than what he'd been planning to do and at a lower altitude (if the heat was greater) so it evened out. Between his white bodyguard and what people here thought were BDUs he was able to slip through trouble spots, of various sorts and in different places, and wished he could conscript Hansen away from the RAAF entirely, and bring him to Washington. (But neither Herc **_nor_** his family would appreciate **that**...)

He'd seen, as he would tell his higher-ups, an entirely different side of America than he **ever** would have playing the social game among let's-pretend-we're-peers, instead of Washington holding Whitehall's leash -- not all of it happy nor beautiful, but definitely not **mediated** in the same way, by his new tour guide: it was beautiful, and terrible, and he wandered through it in disguise, quashing any qualms at people who thanked him for his service, thinking him one of their own, on the grounds that if they **did** know what he really did, they'd be glad for that, too.

For Hansen's challenges to him, why he stayed, what he really did for work, what consequences could follow **not** doing it -- he didn't have any simple answers for them yet, not really, but **_keeping it all from blowing apart_** was heading the list, even if **his** part in that was only a little one.

And every morning, and every evening, he was reminded yet again of why it mattered so much, to preserve it -- a reminder that had been absent from such a domestic sphere, really, since he and his sister were staying with their grandparents on occasion, and which memories he'd tried to seal away deep enough that the losses couldn't hurt any more.

It was strange to be expected to answer the telephone, **and** for it not to be a grenade of indeterminate status, not knowing if this time it was proper to answer it, or to wait for someone else to do so, with the penalty for guessing wrong at best a screaming fit -- instead to have whoever was summoned, be it "Mrs. Dr. Martin" or "Mr. Dr. Martin," smile and wave thanks when picking up the receiver, rather than snatching it impatiently away -- to be in a house, and **not** have it be a war zone, ultimately.

He understood, now, why it was that Herc would **still** come over alone, and spend half his leave here with his in-laws, and feel it a privilege to do the heavier lifting around the place, for his holiday. They were **_good people,_** as the saying went, and the island of tranquillity they had made here, however dependent on a relative isolation and the privilege of wealth -- like a monastery or mountaintop retreat (albeit a rather noisy and chaotic one in its way) -- was as much a refuge that they'd both needed, even as those places were, for those who could make use of them.

After a day, he did put his phone back together and instead of humbly apologizing for his loss of temper, spun his Consulate handler a fantastical yet entirely **plausible** yarn of making local contacts with strong ties to South Pacific regional endeavours, of important information sources in the fields of military aviation and epidemiological research, of conditions on the ground and local factions under the radar (well, surfing beaches certainly were that! and so were farmers' markets...)

All the while Hansen sat across from him at the garden table and struggled to keep quiet, his hand pressed to his mouth, until he'd rung off -- at which point he'd nearly fallen over, choking at the audacity of getting them to both retroactively endorse **_AND_** pay for his truancy.

That had given him a pang, and a bit of silent agonizing over whether this was dishonesty, or at least unethical -- but then he decided that no, this really **was** important, he **had** learned local conditions both in this area and of the country itself, that he never would have encountered ordinarily, had formed **_connections_** such that, **in** the unlikely event he ever **_did_** need to go to ground in this part of the world, he'd **have** a fighting chance -- and was vastly better equipped to interpret American noises on **_all_** levels, than he'd been a month ago.

Really, it was a bargain, at that price -- even if he'd never have been able to sell it upstairs under its own identity!

**_No, I swear, a point-by-point comparison of every gelato stand in Los Angeles is CRITICAL to the preservation of world peace; however it is strongly recommended that comparisons with Roman authorities be made, for statistical accuracy..._ **

(Nobody had even wondered where he was, or what he was up to, within about ten minutes of them storming off on their own; the others had made some disgruntled noises about "the nerve of that fellow," and then settled down to serious drinking, and Hughes had been so hung-over the following morning, mid-morning, and into the early afternoon that he'd completely forgotten about anything but his headache, until he received a summons that should have been ominous but wasn't...)

It was a week of strange, everyday, uncomplicated delights, of little mundane beauties and eccentric entertainments. Herc's in-laws seemed to find his company as charming as though Herc were their own young son who'd brought a friend over to stay for tea and play with Matchbox cars after school -- even when they sparred in the evening, after working on digging out new beds and setting in new plants all one day (which was both more work and more fun than he would ever have guessed) exhausted and covered in dirt and **still** able to keep going at it longer than sense or sore muscles advised them!

"It's like the Universal Studios tours, only free, and not faked," the Martins replied, when Pentecost wondered belatedly if they ought to have checked first, if they minded him apparently trying to break their daughter's husband in their back garden.

"Yeah an' I'm not eatin' **fake _bugs_** , either," Herc said, spitting out a mouthful of grass.

"Don't worry -- we're both doctors, so we can easily fix **any** damages you boys do to each other."

 ** _"Sarah_ ,** you're an **epidemawhatsit!"**

"And there go your bugs," she returned, most reasonably.

It was as if he'd turned a corner and found Looking-Glass Land on the other side of a shop's mirrored window without remarking the crossing-over. There were tournaments in that, after all, he remembered...

The fact that Hansen was strong, and fast, and ruthless when he fought, and could deal him horrific damage if he were trying, even if **he** took the same in turn -- and **only** ever really hurt him by accident, and that scarcely at all, and less the more they trained together -- but **NOT** because he was deliberately forfeiting or holding back in his efforts to score, either, his competitiveness in **this** knew no bounds! -- it was a challenge, an encouragement to try things he would never have dared with any other partner, to take risks, like a climber who trusts their spotter entirely, and so do better, extend his own abilities as he had never thought to.

And it seemed the same, for his comrade -- at least they stayed paced, over the next four days, and nobody ended up broken, and only enough bruised to be incentive for improvement, though they'd stopped keeping score long before the end, because it didn't matter -- only the movement, and the moment.

And if Herc found the contemplation of their ritual battles after the fact, or in anticipation of, a turn-on as well (because it really didn't happen when someone was actively trying to kick you in the head and vice versa, no matter **what** writers of sensational fiction thought, the circulatory system didn't work like that -- aside from being a very good way to move from 'attempted' to 'achieved' kick in the head, which was an extremely swift turn- **off** ) he never said anything, no more than he ever did anything inappropriate.

As unthinking in his physical contact as he was -- with **everyone** , Pentecost noted, at least among family and friends -- and even with gestures of affection, once they'd retired for the night it was as if there were indeed a drawn blade between them, as in the old stories of shapeshifted brothers by blood or oath changed places -- they slept back to back, his host's solid warmth against his spine innocent as a brother's -- though he did wonder, what if Hansen had turned to face him, or taken his hand, and what then?

**_Honi soit qui mal y pense -- not that either of us will ever be Knights of the Garter!_ **

But the question never arose, and no one around them acted as if there might be any impropriety in this arrangement, at all.

There was a respect for his, what Americans called **_space_** , not a disregard of him as an inconvenience, leaving him alone when he signalled a need for solitude, without resentment. He found it quite wonderful, nothing in his family life or his professional experience like it at all.

Invitations to accompany didn't mean that they **had** to be accepted, or offence be taken -- there was no arcane ritual of guesswork to be engaged in for fear of violating unspoken protocols, when Charlie and Herc decided to make another trip to what they both described as "a garden centre larger than the whole of LA" (inside its own pocket dimension!) which didn't **sound** like much fun at all, it was perfectly all right that he and Sarah spent the afternoon reading at home, taking it in turns to refill the teapot.

Finishing his book, which was a strange one, he would need to read it again, and talk about it with the others who'd finished it already -- and with **Herc** , he realized he **_had_** someone here to discuss it with, already -- he took his mug to the kitchen to wash it, and while admiring the bright gleam of the hummingbirds at the window feeder noticed that their syrup was getting low, and went round to bring it in.

While he was taking it down from its hook he noticed as well that the flag on the mailbox had been moved, so he went out to the end of the driveway to bring in whatever was there, and exchanged waves with the neighbour, who taught Organic Chemistry at the University and shook her head in amusement at the Martins' eccentric foreign relations and their anti-automobile ways whenever he and Herc went out on their own.

(Apparently the neighbourhood had decided that he was either an old Air Force buddy of the Martins' son-in-law, **or** a distant cousin from Australia, due to their similar accents because **_either_** of those made more sense to them than the story that he was some random guy Herc had met at a company outing, so to speak, and brought home on a whim! This reported gossip had occasioned blank stares between the two of them, and hilarity from their hosts, who'd **watched** _Eastenders_ on public television and caught him out, first of any Americans he'd met --)

"Sarah, the post's here," he called, thinking how strange and improbable it all was, how none of his colleagues had ever given him a spare key, told him to treat their house as a pied--terre, to take their car (if he dared!) or make free of anything he wished -- but these semi-retired doctors, living a life of means but not extravagance, had trusted Herc's judgement of character, and so him, and so in this city he'd found both overt rebuff and a welcome in short supply, in his own country-- "Your bird feeder needs more sugar water, too."

"Oh, **thank** you -- I would have had to get the stepladder out, or wait until the boys got home," she said, with a cheerfulness just short of effusive as she rinsed and refilled the fountain and handed it back to be replaced. Part of him still thought, ** _These people CAN'T be real! --_** even if he no longer suspected them of being some sort of fiction created by one or another secretive government agency...

"May I ask you something personal?" She looked up at him with the familiar wary look that everyone got at that question, but when he went on to say, "Do you **really** not mind it, you and Charlie, that your daughter didn't finish medical school? That she got married instead of following in your footsteps?" her expression cleared at once.

"Oh, well, she **did** \-- it's not easy being a paramedic, it's harder than **my** work in a lot of ways! But that's not what you meant, I know. We--" She frowned for a moment. "It's funny, because it bothers Angela so much more than it **ever** bothered either of us, she always introduces us as 'my parents, the real doctors!' when we come to visit -- and yes, we...had **concerns** , and I won't say we **weren't** disappointed, though we tried to be supportive the way parents are supposed to!"

He nodded, quickly, the way one does when one doesn't really follow what's being said.

"But then we met Herc, and -- well, **you** know! You just can't help but love him, he's so kind and generous, he'd give you the shirt off his back and ask if you needed anything else! And she'd figured it all out, looking into transferring credits and what kind of local needs for her skills there were, **before** she called us up to say she'd met this guy scuba diving and was moving in with him--"

Dr. Martin shook her head, laughing ruefully.

"Which, no, that's **never** a good call to get, no matter how modern and open-minded you think you are! Even before she told us he'd just gotten back from Kyrgyzstan and--"

She rolled her eyes, waved her hand around in a gesture eloquent of a whole theatre's worth of drama, before admitting, "It was **very** traumatic. We **could** have handled it better. **She** could have handled it better! The only one who really handled it **at** **all** well was ** _Herc."_**

"Oh?" he returned in that precise shading of tone which indicated curiosity but only enough to encourage further elaboration, **not** skepticism nor a gossip's desire for prurient details either. It was a crucial skill, in his line of work, though not so easily acquired.

"Yes, if he hadn't been patient with **all** of us, taking our side with Angela, if you can believe it, and not getting the least bit angry or defensive about anything, just **proving** he wasn't some flyboy with more muscles than brains, I doubt any of us would be speaking to each other today! Charlie and I would probably be **divorced** , frankly."

She gave him a shrewd look.

"I take it your family wasn't very good at dealing with disappointment -- **or** change?"

"You **might** say that," Pentecost admitted, though it was a wrench.

"Neither was Herc's, as I'm sure you've figured out! It's a shame, but...well, it's a **clich,** I know, but sometimes all you can do is try to leave the world a better place than you found it, however you do it."

Carefully he replied, "Sometimes things are clichs by virtue of being inarguable, I think," before nodding towards the kitchen window. "We're being **stared at** by small, beady-eyed creatures which appear to be losing their patience. I'd better go feed them **before** they start drilling through the glass."

"Yes --sometimes you can really **tell** they're just little dinosaurs, can't you?" Sarah Martin laughed, accepting the redirect gracefully and moving to sort through the envelopes and catalogues.

That conversation **stuck** with him, making an impression as powerful as the sometimes-noisy disagreements that Herc and his father-in-law got into over where things should go, in the garden renovations -- how deep holes should be made, whether they needed as many inches of gravel as all that, or what difference a few degrees off true north or south would make to the health of the plantings -- that these very loud gesticulation-filled arguments **didn't** indicate anything significant, wouldn't progress to violence or even anger, nothing would be broken or slammed, meant no more than neighbourhood children shouting about how to place bits of old board to make the best bike ramp--

It was strange, too, how Charlie would talk about his adventures with the Peace Corps, and Medecins Sans Frontiers (that was how he and Sarah had met, after an earthquake on another continent, where **she** was part of an international research team, but it was all hands to the pumps then so regardless of specialty they'd all headed out to fill whatever needs they could) and never get angry if they interrupted to ask for clarification, or mentioned their own travels -- the role of paterfamilias as raconteur was something that didn't **have** to involve everyone staying put in perfect reverent silence like worshippers at some profane, bloody, blasphemous service, the Church of St. Mars upon Thames --

He never did stop **being** tense, waiting for something to go wrong -- waiting for it all to vanish, like a hallucination -- but nothing ever **did**. It felt like a dream, in the way that dreams seem to have **always** gone on, never a sense of it having **begun** , that he'd always been there, working side by side with Herc in the kitchen to make breakfast for the four of them, or following him up some steep half-hidden staircase that was a shortcut between streets, just like in Rome, or wading along the shoreline, trying to skip stones and rolling his eyes at Herc's efforts to convince him to learn surfing...

And when the week was up, far too quickly, all of them insisted on bringing him to the airport -- told him to keep the spare key, to be sure to call them if he were **ever** in town -- or in California, period -- or in Australia, or able to manage a side trip -- and hugged him goodbye, Charlie with the approved older-male handshake-and-shoulder clasp, Sarah with the head-tilted sideways embrace of the mother-not-embarrassing-grown-son, and Herc wrapping his arms around him, as though **he** were the older brother going off to the wars this time.

He had seen families sending a loved one off, all the world over, and all of these things were familiar -- as things witnessed, from a distance, proving that not everyone sent each other off in stony silence, or (hopefully) barely-suppressed anger, or avoided it at all...

Yet, once the landing gear crunched its way out of the way underfoot and the soil of California fell away underwing, it all began to **seem** like one of those dreams out of the stories, or the tales where having left the feast beneath the hills, one could never find a way **back** again.

More than halfway, he was convinced that this interval, and the welcome of it, once past could never again be repeated, and **that** fear hurt more than he could ever have anticipated, when he landed but a week earlier.

When he changed planes at Chicago, he had barely enough time to turn his phone on and check messages -- and was frustrated to see it slowly loading **something** when he tried -- but then it was a text from Herc, with the number of the connecting flight he was supposed to change over to and which gate it was at -- which ought to have been insulting, but only felt like sunlight in winter, and the sluggishness was due to another with an attachment -- the photo of the two of them that they'd taken with Herc's phone, there beside the 'North Pole', which was nearly in focus.

Even so, he **still** doubted, on a sub-rational level -- until he got to Dulles and found **another** text, timestamped only minutes before, that read:

**ITS WHEELS DOWN NOW UNLESS YOU GOT STUCK @ OHARE IF SO GOD HELP YOU MATE SO LET US KNOW WHEN YOU GET IN OK?**

and he found himself blinking hard as he replied to it, collected his luggage, and then called his sister to let her know he'd arrived safely, and to ask her how things had been going, up in the wilds of Scotland.

"What's wrong? You sound **distracted** ," she asked, after they'd exchanged the basics, and added, "Anything you want to talk about?" which was their code for, **_Is it something you CAN talk about?_**

Odd, that this **was** something he could talk freely about, and yet felt more serious -- and yes, secret -- than any of the classified ones!

"I've found my Sergeant Harper," he answered, because it was true. "We didn't even try to kill each other," which was also true, if in a somewhat more complicated way.

"Oh, I'm **_glad_** \-- but why do you sound so **sad** , then?"

"He's **RAAF,** not RAF."

"You could transfer," Luna said matter-of-factly. **"Lots** of people do. Australia's a net importer of RAF crews, **you** know that."

"Would **you** , if I did?" Her sigh was answer enough -- but then she had to go and elaborate, because that's what older siblings did.

 **"I'm** opening doors," she said, and he could just see her expression in his mind's eye (video phones that worked without a hitch, internationally or otherwise, **still** being futuristic things at that time.) "What are **_you_** doing -- besides trying to please the old man's **ghost?"**

Instead of his usual glib reply of, "My duty," **or** changing the subject, Stacker thought about his answer for a moment (that was all it took, really.)

"Holding **other** doors shut," he returned, "or **_trying_** to. Someone who **cares** needs to be doing it -- not someone who cares about **promotions** , and de'il tak' the hindmost!"

"Oh God, **please** don't do a Scots accent," she scolded him, irritated that he'd made her laugh. "It's **worse** by contrast, being here."

"My American one's better now, though."

"Just so long as it's **your** choice, and you're not using me **or** anyone else as excuse, you hear? By the way, we got your **photos** and you've sold us on the place, so we're going to put in for an exchange posting. Who knows? Maybe we'll luck out, eventually."

"It's hot," he warned, but she laughed.

 ** _"Good._** Or have you **forgotten** what Moray's like? The opposite of cold and wet sounds damn wonderful right now. It's not **supposed** to be **_fifteen_** in August."

"It **could** be Mount Pleasant," he pointed out, because whatever Scotland was, it wasn't within shouting distance of Antarctica.

**"Shut _up_ , you!"**

"Patagonia, home of the most inappropriately-named station on the planet, a mere -- whoops, sorry, I've got to get to a charger, this phone's **almost** dead. Give my love to Tamsin, all right?"

"Will do -- give 'em hell in Washington for us, see if you can't get them to **stop** this bloody stupid **_situation_** , all right?"

"I'll do my best," he smiled, because they **both** knew how hopeless **_that_** task was, and rung off, not even having **considered** mentioning their mutual acquaintance, Flying Officer Hughes.

 


	4. AUSTRALIA

The following months included several phone conversations, each of which unruined whatever day they fell on, as well as the steady stream of emails and texts, some with pictures, after the first **_DID YOU KNOW YOU LEFT YOUR BOOK HERE?_** to which he'd replied **_Yes -- consider it a protest against unfair export regulations from a London sympathizer,_** knowing how that would amuse both the American and Australian members of the family -- and making a note to pack up a box from his own library to send to Brisbane, once their holiday was over.

He hadn't really expected to find himself on a flight from Singapore not four months later, though, having been all but commanded to come spend Christmas at the Hansens', or however much of it he could fit in to his schedule and remaining leave time.

And even though he found himself standing in the International terminal, holding his luggage as he scanned the crowds for the tall red-head, he remained unsure of both his welcome and his sanity, until he realized that the commotion over to one side was a shortish, very pink-faced brunette in some sort of bright blue uniform rather like an American park ranger's, standing on a bench waving her arms frantically and shouting **_"COOEEE!"_** \-- aside from which, she looked just like her pictures.

Given the holiday crush he approved of the strategy -- it was much easier for him to shoulder his way to that high ground, than for her to plunge in and try to find him from under the tide of humanity, given their respective heights -- **and** the practicality of it, even if her neighbours did seem to find it rather annoying.

"Here, let me take that," she said as she jumped down, holding her hand out for his carry-on, and only then, "Hi, I'm Angela, not a luggage thief, I promise."

"Yes, I -- I did recognize you," he answered with a startled laugh. "Herc -- is he here, or are we meeting him somewhere?"

"He got trapped by reports again so I switched shifts at work, we just have to run some errands on the way," she said over her shoulder, already leading the way outside, and over to a German-made van that had been turned into an ambulance -- or, technically, **_painted up like one,_** you couldn't say it **was** one until you saw inside.

Inside it was indeed such, proven when she opened the back to throw his bag inside.

"We need to take this by the garage first," she explained, "the transmission is starting to make noises again -- **you** don't mind, do you?"

"Why should I? You haven't got a **meter** running, have you?"

She laughed and then sighed, "Are they doing that back home now? Wouldn't surprise me -- Oh, would **you** rather drive?"

"Me? Why on earth...? **I've** never driven an ambulance!" shocked quite out of all diplomacy.

"Well, it's a right-hand drive, figured you'd be more experienced with it than I am," she shrugged.

"I doubt that very much," Pentecost retorted. "I haven't driven in almost a year." Being American, she was **quite** shocked, and his explanation that he travelled too much -- and that between places with left- or right-side roads, most of which had at least adequate public transportation -- obviously sounded highly implausible.

Well, Australia shared the vast distances, if not the dismal lack of urban transit, with America, so perhaps other than **which** side of the road, it felt like home in that regard? As they wheeled about and shot through the gates of the car park at the full legal speed, he wondered if that had been a **sincere** offer or a **polite** offer, and considered the possibilities in either case.

Neither one of them was particularly **encouraging** , considered as a whole -- either she really **wasn't** confident of her driving skills, in which case this whole scenario was a bad idea, starting with her name-tag, and which hardly seemed likely in any case -- or she felt that **he _wouldn't_** be, though he couldn't think of anything he'd said or done to give that impression, and was only offering to be a good host.

No, wait, this could be sliced still finer -- it was possible that Angela Hansen **ordinarily** felt her mastery of local traffic to be more than adequate, but in the presence of someone for whom it was a primary skill, not a second language so to speak, she'd lost some of that confidence, without his having to say anything at all.

 ** _Had_** he looked askance at her heading for the driver's door? He started to worry--

And then another notion occurred to him, but he had no way to test it. **Would** she have made the same offer to another woman who hailed from Great Britain? Was it that she assumed that a man would want to take the wheel, **or** be uncomfortable with a woman at it? But that didn't seem like Charlie's style -- was it the military, then--?

"Herc was right," she said, with an odd sort of amusement, "you're **doing** it just like he said."

"Doing **_what?"_**

"That thing where you kind of **go away** , but you're still listening -- you could take a quiz on it after and get a hundred -- but you're **thinking** about something completely different the whole time." And now she did grin. "That's what makes him think you're maybe an alien observer here to see if the Galactic Federation will let us keep our weapons," her tone light and bantering.

**_So is this an attempt to make trouble between us? I never got that impression when you and I talked on the phone, but -- I don't KNOW, now--_ **

"So what **were** you thinking about?"

So he told her, in detail, laying out the options in what he thought of as " **virtual** flow chart mode" since his computer was in his bag in the back and he didn't have any paper handy.

There was a long silence broken only by the muffled sound of traffic through the hull of the van.

"That's -- pretty terrifying," she said. "Honestly? I don't know. I **thought** I was thinking Britain -- they drive on the left -- you'd be **better** at it? but I don't **know** if I'd have made the same offer to your sister."

"She would have said **_Yes_** at once, by the way."

"Does **she** drive an ambulance?"

"I don't know if she's ever driven a van of **any** sort -- but how much harder can it be than **_flying?"_**

 **"Oh.** \--Sounds like we'd get along just fine!"

Pentecost thought about the three women on a road trip together, and his imagination kept supplying a backdrop of random explosions and mayhem, for some reason. It would be tremendously entertaining, he suspected, if you weren't a hapless passenger of theirs, along for the ride. (There were no explosions, when this eventuality came to pass, but the mayhem more than made up for it, according to Herc, who survived it with his sanity held together by string and rubber bands.)

"Do you do that to **everybody**? Work out what they might be thinking and why, and tell them?"

"The first part, or the last part?"

"The **telling."**

"Only to my friends."

"Select group, huh?"

 ** _"Very."_** He gave her a considering look, sidelong. "What else has your husband been saying about me?"

"That you're very shy and very English," she said at once, "which **_I_** said, Aren't those the same thing?" her grin teasing at that last.

 **"I'm** not shy," he objected at once.

"No? What would **you** call it, then?"

 ** _"Reserved,"_** he answered, after a moment.

"Hmm."

They pulled off the motorway and into a tangle of traffic lights, through which she wove and dodged as neatly as any barnstormer, until they pulled up in front of a service station with a garage around back.

"You didn't flinch **once** , so I guess my driving's okay," she nodded seriously, and then ruined the effect by saying, "Not **bad** for a first time driving one of these, huh? Nobody would guess **I'm** not a Transport Officer, would they?"

He thought about that for a second.

 **"No.** You're having me on."

"You **_sure?"_** She flicked her shoulder patch, which read "Paramedic".

"Yeah. You didn't **swear** enough for that," and she laughed, shaking her head.

"Hah, okay, you got me. I'm **disappointed** , though."

"Why?"

"You didn't ask if we could turn the **siren** on! **_Everybody_** asks if we can turn the siren on, when they ride in one of these."

 **"I'm** not everybody," to which austere retort she nodded sagely.

**_"Shy."_ **

"Oh, for--" He rolled his eyes, realized that he was talking back to her as easily as if she were a friend of years' confidence -- or her parents, or her husband. "What **are** we doing now, do we wait for them to get to it? Is Herc meeting us here?"

"No, I'm picking up my co-worker's car here, and then we'll go get my son from daycare, drop Liam's car at his place, if he's back by then -- but if he's **not** , we'll pick up Herc's dress uniform from the cleaners, then go grocery shopping -- otherwise we'll do that after we switch cars, and then we'll go home."

"God, I **hope** there's not a quiz on this," which made her laugh, as he'd expected, and he ended up flagging the vehicle in for her, since the mechanics had a particular place in the yard where they wanted it parked, which was of course all the way around an obstacle course of other cars and parts of cars.

There was paperwork, and key-exchanging, while he fetched his luggage from inside the van, and then -- there was a rather dilapidated old wagon painted with a fairly decent rendering of Hokusai's most famous work, but with surfboards replacing the fishing boats.

"Liam's a surfer," Paramedic Hansen explained, straight-faced.

"I'd never have guessed," because it would have been a crime to leave a line like that where it was.

"You **sure** you don't want to drive?"

"Thanks -- but I don't want to be Johnny-on-the-spot when the **wheels** fall off."

"Hey, that only happened **once** , Liam says," she protested, "just **one** wheel, and the garage says they fixed it--"

Somehow they managed to keep this going all the way to the day nursery, and then there was there was a fuss with the baby chair that turned into a car seat, because it turned out that something incomprehensible had been done with the rear seatbelts, making them inaccessible--

"Why would anyone **do** this?" Angela ranted, and **he** wondered why a paramedic would do it to his own vehicle, and an angry text was sent to her colleague asking the same question.

And it wouldn't do for him to switch places and go without, apparently, even for a fairly short trip across town, so tools had to be located and he found himself wrestling with screwdrivers from the floor of the wagon while Herc's wife hung over the back of the seats and tried to fish the buckles out from above with pliers, and the care centre staff and older children hung about watching, offering opinions, and (in one case) having a spitting contest in the dirt beside the driveway.

 ** _Well, this is not much like any holiday I've taken before,_** Pentecost thought, **_although it does have a certain "field exercises" air -- right down to the yobbos having a spitting contest!_** Nobody had been apologizing for the things-gone-wrong on those occasions, though, just yelling about whose fault it was (that had happened after the text went unanswered and they were still fighting with the jammed buckles, but voice mail didn't really have the same impact.)

Eventually the use of an almost comically-large plumber's wrench gave them enough leverage that they were able to extract one of them, and secure the safety harness properly.

And then Herc's wife retrieved her father's namesake, who looked much like he had in the family photos they'd sent, just a bit **larger** \-- round-faced, round-eyed, oddly-proportioned and as typical of that not-very-bipedal stage of humanity as any stock advertising photo meant for selling overpriced necessities to yuppies.

"He bites, and throws things," Angela said matter-of-factly. "What? He **does** , I'm just warning you in advance."

"Yeah, but -- you're his **mum."**

"Which means....I'm supposed to **pretend** he doesn't bite? Sorry, **I'm** the one that gets bitten most around here! **Unfortunately** people look at you funny, when you suggest muzzles for toddlers."

"What about a binkie?" Pentecost suggested, having seen people stuff those into the mouths of screaming, gnashing offspring in prams.

 **"That's** where the throwing starts. Tiny little muzzles with cute prints on the straps, like you get for Pomeranians, **_I_** think there's a real market for them," Herc's wife said wistfully, as a miniature sandal came flying up and hit the dashboard. "The ad for those? Said children under three can't pry them off," her voice changing to pure acid. "Hah!"

Curiously, but with caution, he peered around -- the boy was gnawing on the other one, though, with it still attached to his foot.

"Should he be eating that?"

"Probably not, but there's no point in trying to keep dirt out of kids. Although! that's **another** good marketing point for my idea!"

Liam hadn't made it back from his shift by the time they reached his side of town (which was probably a good thing, given his co-worker's temper right now), so they made the detour to the dry cleaners, and afterwards the supermarket, which had that jarring mix of familiarity and regional difference that all chain grocers had, around the world, these days.

It felt like some sort of puzzle, or test -- **_Figure out which English-speaking nation you're in, by looking at the packaging and sign wording_**! -- so it wasn't until they'd almost finished picking up everything that he noticed the looks they were getting.

"I **think** people think I'm your **_husband,"_** he whispered, when they paused at an intersection.

"That's okay, I'm **used** to jealous stares by now," his companion said absent-mindedly as she crossed another item off the list, so he didn't think she caught his embarrassed expression, or how he turned away to hide it. (He was wrong, of course.)

Unfortunately by the time they reached the cashiers, people were **also** staring because he hadn't realized that when small children were involved, there was no such thing as **_too far_** when it came to putting eggs in the trolley, so it was **his** turn for the round of heartfelt apologizes and exclamations of horrified dismay, and by the time they reached the Wavemobile (for so it was apparently dubbed) they were both laughing so hard they couldn't speak.

"Welcome to Australia," Angela Hansen wheezed at last, "why haven't you run screaming yet?" By virtue of this coincidence, her conversation with the unfortunate Liam was less 'rip-your-liver-and-lights-out-via-telephony' and more, 'you-utter-numbskull-what-were-you-thinking' but he was still glad not to be on the other end of the line, especially given the trolley fiasco.

"Oh, so it's your stoner **friends'** fault -- I guess that makes everything fine! No, I **don't** want you to 'make it up to me,' I want you to make sure that your stupid friends don't **die** because they're soooo cool, they're **_allergic_** to **seat belts!** Now are **you** home yet, or not? Oh my God, you haven't touched the belts in **_OUR_** car, have you?"

On the way there, the youngest Hansen managed to combine both hobbies by gnawing a biscotti into several fragments and flinging them about the wagon interior -- Angela shook her head and absolutely refused to sanction hunting for the gooey pieces, saying it was only fair play for the oil smudges their extraction effort had left on Pentecost's shirt. (He pointed out that it was a charcoal grey and thus they were invisible, but she stood on principle there.)

The Hansens' vehicle, which was a newer, smaller station wagon -- but not **that** much newer -- had a variety of official parking stickers for different institutions, juxtaposed with a number of humorous bumper stickers and whimsical decals (which, after the initial moment, didn't really surprise him) and Liam having chosen discretion over valour had left the keys in it, refusing to answer the door.

So they transferred the baby seat over ( **no** difficulty this time) from the Wavemobile, leaving his keys under the doormat (Pentecost managing to talk Angela out of taking them with her and making him pick them up at work instead, since they **had** gotten free transportation from the deal, even if it wasn't the most convenient) and headed west into the suburban wilderness, into which Herc was presumably heading east from Amberley to meet up somewhere in the middle.

"It's a bit of a commute for both of us, but it works out," she said, "and it's **nothing** compared to the traffic in LA."

"LA, right," and he tried to think of some conversational gambit that didn't sound stupid, because **_I met your parents there_** was out, and any variation on **_It was very nice to meet your parents in Los Angeles_** that he could come up with, sounded far **too** formal and studied for either his stay at the Martins' or his subsequent long-distance conversations with the Hansens, culminating in the present moment and the very small shoe he'd just felt bounce off the back of his headrest.

" **Missed us** , ya little ratbag!" Angela crowed. **_"Neener neener nyah nyah!"_** followed by a raspberry, which turned into a call-and-response chorus of more and less skillfully-executed juvenile taunts between the Hansens mere et fils for the next several miles, until this effort apparently wore the younger contestant out, and he passed out like a drunkard in a comedy sketch.

 ** _I signed up for a fortnight of this,_** Pentecost thought, **_premeditated and everything._**

"Did you find it difficult to get used to summer weather at Christmastime?" he asked, and she frowned.

"This is pretty much the same as California, so not really." Her expression turned a bit speculative, a bit mocking. "You know, my parents raved **so much** about you, I was starting to feel a big jealous. 'Herc's friend is so wonderful -- he helped Herc paint the shed, he got the old stereo working again, he cooked all these fancy breakfasts for us' -- made me feel a bit of a loser, because I just want to sleep in and do **nothing** when I go home for a visit!"

"It was only pancakes," he protested, "nothing special."

 ** _"I_** heard it was crepes, and really good ones -- although I've got to say, **they** think you're making the story about traditional Olde English pancake races up, 'cause that's the kind of thing Mom does."

"Shrove Tuesday Pancake Races are real -- I'm sure I can find a link on the BBC's site about it." Pentecost paused for a moment. "I admit they don't **sound** very believable, but I can't help **_that."_**

And **then** he added, "If it helps, I'm quite jealous of **you** , for having them as parents."

There was another long pause.

"I can tell, I'm going to have a hard time keeping my promise to Herc," **_\--What could that possibly mean?_** "--and **not** steal you all for myself! But I **said** we'd share," and he suddenly realized that it wasn't necessarily easier for other people to make friends, especially when their lives were uprooted, that she'd given up a great deal to stay here with Herc -- rather than it being a self-indulgence, let alone a folly -- even if she clearly thought it all worth it.

And here he'd swept in, claiming **her** place in her family's regard, without ever thinking how it might **feel** to her, to be so easily displaced (it **had** to seem that way, on some level!) and how subtle a temptation, not to try to create conflict in any usual sense of the word, but by claiming him for her own, monopolizing his attention to achieve revenge in beautifully-deniable graciousness--

Her honesty shook him, made his heart skip a beat as if he'd missed a stair or had a near brush with traffic, and he took a careful, aching breath.

 ** _Here's where someone in a novel or a show would say 'I hope we shall be the best of friends,'_** he thought, **_or something equally cringeworthy!_**

"I can make up a schedule, when I get my laptop out," he said instead, and set her off again.

When the laughter finally stopped, she started talking about Los Angeles, explaining the relationships of everyone he'd met or been told about there in ways that made more sense than Herc's scattered narration (Javier was neighbour Sofia's younger cousin, which was how The First Circle was the Martin-Hansen family watering hole, for one) and suggesting future adventures for his next visit to LA-- because obviously he would be visiting them again! -- before switching to local interests, explaining about the different levels of certification in Australia's emergency services, and how she'd prepared herself psychologically to drive on the opposite side of the road from an early age, by hacking racing video games with a mirror and gaffer tape --

"Because **if** you're going to be an international jewel thief, which was my career plan then, you need to be able to drive your getaway car anywhere, right? Of course the real thing turned out to very different, but--"

Staring at her in disbelief, because **_what schoolgirl fantasizes about being an international jewel thief?_** (most of them, in America, of a certain generation, but that wasn't the sort of thing that NATO or Commonwealth governments noticed) he **almost** missed the story of Herc taking her out to practice driving at abandoned airfields, until she really was good enough at it to get her license here, and soon to drive ambulances not simply administer treatment to victims, by intensive study and practice, like becoming a cab driver in London or New York--

He did notice that she was quite pretty, in a dimpled 1940s Hollywood "artless ingenue" way, what newspaper critics would call "vivacious" or perhaps "sparkling" -- but never **_regal_** \-- not like Jiachen, who had the eyes of a goddess made wise by dwelling among mortals, and the poise of a Delphic Sybil with a whiteboard, whether she was demonstrating the different ways of matching velocities in orbit to a professional audience, or quidditch plays to her friends...

"I guess they didn't **have** Carmen Sandiego in England, huh?"

"Uh -- I don't know? We -- moved around a lot, I--" and waited for her to say something like **_Herc told me your ignorance of pop culture is staggering_** but instead she started talking about what shows **did** make it across international boundaries, how British shows like _Thomas the Tank Engine_ and _Paddington Bear_ were big in America, and Nickelodeon was big here **but** it didn't run all the same programmes as back home, so trying to find common nostalgia grounds could be difficult--

"You're doing it right back," he said, "and you're right, it **is** terrifying," putting his own version of the unsheathed sword between them. Her eyebrow went up, just one of them.

 **"I** thought I was being subtle," and he shrugged.

"I'm sure you were."

**_"Ouch."_ **

"I didn't say **did** , I said **_were."_**

"Oh-h, you're just **that good**. I get it." She bit her lip, glanced over briefly before looking back to the road. "Do you DM?"

 ** _So much for distancing!_** "Not for years," he admitted, thinking a bit wistfully of the days before he'd been shunted off to Intel, when squadron pals who would never have thought of inviting him over for tea, were nevertheless happy to include him to run their sessions on game nights...

"Well, start planning now! We'll round up Herc's group, since everyone should be back for at least **part** of the holidays," but before he could ask what rules they were using, a blood-curdling wail -- not entirely unlike an ambulance siren itself -- rose from the back, as Chuck Hansen abruptly awakened to the fact that the universe existed and it was unsatisfactory so far as he was concerned.

"Almost home, buddy, hang in there," Angela called back, making faces in the rear view mirror to try to cheer her son up, "then you can go gnaw on your father, okay? Stacker, would you mind giving him another biscotti? Just don't let him grab your hand--"

Pentecost turned around, looking at the sleep-fuddled juvenile human whose gaping mouth, disproportionately-large round eyes, and brush of wild copper hair altogether resembled a Muppet more than anything else on earth, and offered him the sugar biscuit as cautiously if feeding a strange parrot.

He'd thought all the talk about **_biting_** was a bit of a leg-pull, and **then** he'd seen the boy chomping on the hand grip of the trolley until Angela had peeled him off it by the scruff of his neck (some things were too unsanitary for even her stolid professionalism), and those serrated nubs of dentition were worrying enough without the fixed stare of determination and steady scraping, as though it were possible to chew through solid steel given enough time!

The miniature Hansen stared at him, still screaming in generalized complaint, but reached for the treat.

 **"Why** are you **_shouting?"_** he asked. "Do you want **tea** instead?"

 ** _"Grph,"_** his friends' son answered, trying to strangle himself with the biscotti by eating the entire thing at once, and failing.

 **"How** did humans survive long enough to **_discover fire?"_**

"We ask ourselves that, **every** time we get a call," Angela sighed.

And then they were off the motorway again, and travelling through warrens of nearly identical little bungalows with tiny front lawns, all somewhat shabby but comfortably so, and it did look an awful lot like parts of California, depending on which neighbourhood of L.A. you were in, complete with the brightly coloured plantings and palm trees.

"Here we are!" she announced, pulling up in front of one that looked pretty much the same as all the others, and he wondered what he expected, as a sign to show that people like the Hansens dwelt therein --

They were still disembarking with bags and baby gear when Herc came running out of the house, his face alight, wearing some horrifying garish tee with what might be a band logo on it, over cutoff dungarees even rattier than the shorts he'd worn in L.A.

"You're here! **You** can help me with the washing-up just like before, I saved it for old times' sake!" But his expression changed to a look of worry when Pentecost only glared at him.

"What the **_hell_** have you been telling people?" he demanded sternly. "Would **Klaatu** know about Pancake Tuesday?"

"If he did his homework," the other man said, raising his eyebrows, "prepared for his **role** , right?"

Pentecost shook his head.

 **"You're** **_impossible,"_** and embraced him. "Your son's trying to eat his chair again, I'm afraid there's biscotti pieces in crumb-drool-pudding all over the inside of your vehicle, and I owe you a dozen eggs."

"That's my little ankle-biter!" Herc exclaimed, fishing Chuck out of his car seat and extricating him from the wagon -- upside down, by one leg.

"Uh--" Pentecost stood there, not sure what to say -- the boy's mother didn't seem to even notice, while the child thrashed about, snapping like an eel... and laughing with every sign of extreme delight.

"C'mon, let's get all these groceries in before the **heat** does," Angela cried, kicking the screen door open and dashing through like a secret agent returning from a shopping trip.

"How did she **do** that?"

"Don't you mean **_why?"_**

"No. **_How?_** I couldn't quite catch what she did to the **handle--"**

"Ballet lessons," she shouted from inside, "stupid childhood **phases** \--but it comes in handy sometimes! Hurry up!"

So there was a sort of bucket chain of bags and baggage, into the little house and its small kitchen, and pretty soon a meal of shepherd's pie and spinach risotto, which Angela insisted was "dinner", Herc insisted was "tea", and which Pentecost refused to arbitrate on general principles, except to call it, "really good -- oh, and **_food."_**

(None of them thought it was at all gauche or improper that they were serving reheated leftovers to a long-awaited guest, all of them being focused on the important things.)

After dinner, or tea, or supper, or whatever it was, they demonstrated risotto-retrieval and floor-scraping techniques for him, and how to bathe a humanoid otter without letting it drown or dash its brains out on the spout no matter how hard it tried, and that it was apparently perfectly safe to drop small children from almost a meter, so long as the mattress was dense enough.

He kept feeling like he ought to say something, but the boy's mother was right there -- then again, she also tended to carry him upside down and backwards, and to deal with his biting her arm at table by screaming loudly enough to startle her son into tears -- which did seem to have some deterrent effect, but also made the other males present startle enough to knock over a glass of water on two separate instances.

"I know, we need to get him a high chair," she sighed, "but the safe ones are so expensive and he'll grow out of it in no time."

"Do you think he'll grow out of the biting first?" he had to ask, which made both Chuck Hansen's parents wince, without answering.

After the baby was in bed (though **before** he had stopped shouting, though **after** he had thrown all the stuffed toys out of his crib, and some of them out of his room entirely) they did the washing-up together, Herc scouring things, Angela rinsing them and passing them to him to dry -- at which point he passed them back to **her** to put away since he didn't know where they went, which seemed a little inefficient but went smoothly enough in practice.

Herc was rattling on about their extra-holiday plans, which as in LA were flexible, but might include some day trips to nearby rainforests and botanical gardens, to make sure that he saw plenty of koalas and platypuses and other local specialities -- "All we gotta do to see **_kangaroos_** is head down to the golf course early before they start playin'," he explained, which might or might not actually be the case -- and of course to the beach, with so many to choose from and so many aquatic attractions once they did so.

"Now you **did** bring swim shorts, right?"

"No," Pentecost said, having simply chosen to ignore that part of their suggested packing list, assuming it wouldn't matter one way or the other.

"Well you **can't** just roll up your cuffs and **_paddle_** this time, like LA -- you're gonna be here two weeks! You don't want to be the only one left on the shore while everyone else is havin' **fun** , do you? I'll lend you my old board shorts -- don't worry, they've been washed--"

"It's not **that** , it--" How to explain how the air force and diplomatic service alike had made him self-conscious, how it was one thing to take to a gym or a hotel pool before anyone else was up, but the sidelong looks, the smirks and whispers, and not-quite-behind-his-back nickname of "The Monolith" meant that just the thought of baring himself in public brought on stress headaches -- but before he could even begin to try to find words, or the words to shut down the conversation altogether, the red-haired man gave him a considering look, and asked, " **Can** you swim?"

" **Of course** I can swim," he retorted, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice, the unspoken **_This again -- and from you?!_** \-- that disbelief no less strong when he'd first heard the ridiculous suggestion, offered as an excuse as to why he hadn't been included in an invitation on a Chesapeake excursion with his colleagues, that black people were physiologically unsuited for swimming--

Angela Hansen nee Martin, born, raised, and recently of Los Angeles, covered her eyes with her left hand and punched her husband shortly in the ribs with her right, the way he'd seen horseback riders strike a beast ten times their size, when it had carelessly leant or trodden on them.

 ** _"Please_** excuse him," she requested, her mouth twisting in an expression no good hostess, whether RAF or diplomatic corps, would ever dream of making with or without the accompanying eyeroll. "He's **not** American -- **and** he hasn't been there much -- and the stereotypes are different here. **Some** of them."

"But what did I **_say?"_** Herc begged, shrinking down in place where he stood so that he seemed to be hardly taller than his wife, looking from one to the other of them with anxious dismay. She didn't relent, and her next words gave their guest a profound relief that the responsibility wouldn't fall to him--

"I'll **tell you** **_later._** Right now, **you** need to put those pans on the top shelf for me. Besides," she said, with another singular eyebrow lift, **_"Everybody_** knows Vulcan's a desert planet."

And Pentecost knew then that she wasn't going to tease him any more about **_shyness_** , or do that annoying thing where people are graciously, and obviously, accommodating of one's foibles, but that she'd chosen instead to cast his reserved nature and social uncertainties in an established dramatic role -- an heroic role, no less, one she'd clearly **striven** to emulate -- and **not** to use them as a way to assert dominance over him in the slightest.

(If he'd chosen to think about it **beyond** that, he might have reflected that while the television studios might have considered Captain Kirk the embodiment of the American male ideal -- square-jawed, sandy-haired, muscular, irresistible to elegant blondes -- it was Spock -- the eternal Stranger, and yet only ever in part -- who had been the one that **_everyone_** yearned for -- **even** , it so often seemed, Kirk himself...)

He reached over Angela's head and firmly if gently took the dish away, forcing the other pilot to look in his direction, and thus to meet his eyes.

"Herc," Pentecost said emphatically, "you're the only man who's **ever** invited me home for the night--" realizing too late how that sounded at the sudden sound that could remotely be characterized as a cough, from somewhere below his left shoulder. Stubbornly he continued, "I'm **not** leaving -- I haven't budgeted for a hotel **or** for exchangin' my tickets."

The Australian blinked several times, and his smile returned -- the small, quiet one first, then the cheerful public grin as he took the glass pan back into his own hand.

"Other shelf."

"So where **am** I staying tonight?"

"Well, I **thought** we could just shove over real tight," Herc said, sounding perfectly serious, which meant he **wasn't** , "like that song Angela sings on trips, **_'There were ten in the bed and the little one said,'_** \-- but then she reminded me **that** ends up with her in sole possession 'n us on the floor, so I figured we'd get a cot and put you in the baby's room instead."

"Okay..." looking **in** the direction of the baby's room, and seeing the crib, but no cot anywhere in sight.

"But things got busy, we just forgot to pick up the cot. So I thought, well, you **wanted** to sleep on the floor in California, you wouldn't mind just a sleeping bag, right?"

 ** _I'm thinking this is all a line of nonsense,_** Pentecost thought, and said nothing, just looked at him.

"But **_I_** put my foot down on that," Angela said.

"Yeah, so **then** I thought, why not the sofa? You said the sofa would be **fine** too, so," he pointed to their compact living room, "there you go!"

Pentecost stared at the sofa, which was aggressively beige, and just enough bigger than a loveseat to qualify for the name, and might sit four people at a pinch if one of them was a small child or two of them didn't mind sharing a lap. It wasn't a futon style sofa, either.

"You're not goin' to say anything, **are** you? That takes all the fun out of it."

"I'm so **overwhelmed** , I don't know **what** to say."

"No, no, **that's** what you say after **_this!"_** And both adult Hansens flung themselves at it, leaping into action to hurl the cushions away and haul on a heavy strap, extracting an entire full-sized mattress from its inner workings and unfolding it across the floor in less than ten seconds. **_"Ta-da!"_**

"I'm **so** overwhelmed, I don't **know** what to say," he dutifully repeated, deadpan.

"You brought sheets, right?"

Angela stood on tiptoe to smack him on the ear.

"Your complete lack of reaction means he was **like** this the whole time in LA, I take it," and Pentecost shrugged.

"I just stopped listening after about the second hour," not looking away from the red-haired man's smile, only barely managing not to break into an idiotic grin of his own, "isn't that what everybody does?" because he could call to mind **almost** every word the other had said, that week, and had half his emails since by heart, too.

The rest of the visit passed in the proverbial whirlwind, though it didn't feel like it at the time.

There was the informal courtesy tour of the base, meeting harried, civil RAAF people in the throes of their own holiday preparations, who didn't know why he was **there** but were happy to oblige their mate Herc -- he punctiliously turned down any offers to go up in anything, partly knowing they were made out of politeness, but also because he **really** didn't like the metal fatigue he could see on those old 707s, and wished like hell he could somehow wave a wand and replace them all with newer (but well-tried!) planes instead.

(They were **probably** all right -- they had a good track-record, none of them had fallen out of the sky for a long time, and it was very wrong of him only to be worrying about it because he knew one of their pilots now, but he couldn't help it.)

There was a Christmas Eve barbecue party, which had far more people than he thought fit comfortably in the bungalow, or even out in the back garden on the brickwork patio, and whose names he barely managed to assimilate, but who all seemed quite pleasant, for the most part -- it was clear that the Hansens were **not** playing the social game, at least if it were the same here as it was back home, which added a certain nuance to Herc's remarks about not getting promoted quickly -- though Australia might be different in that respect, at least they boasted about being more down-to-earth and human all the time!

The one person who was a disappointment, in fact, was Herc's brother Scott, down for the holiday from his own base over in Queensland, who was large and genial and red-haired but other than that was **nothing** like his elder sibling. He too was pleasant enough, but Pentecost kept finding a certain unsettling edge to his laughter, to his smile, to his speech that he couldn't quite understand.

Then he stopped trying to look at the puzzle from the perspective of **_My friend's brother,_** and instead as **_Stranger who I've just met at an officer's mess or embassy function,_** and realized that the trouble was that his smile never reached his eyes, ever.

And yet, he didn't look **_unhappy_** \-- that would have set off a different pattern of worries and concerns -- instead he looked, when you discounted the performance of good cheer, like someone assessing a crowd for trouble, or an audience's receptivity for a con -- he'd seen **that** enough from people making presentations to the MoD, trying to win contracts!

From that point on, he kept noticing more sharp little edges, and when Scott shouted, "Oi! Angie! Toss me another **tinnie** , wouldja love?" as his brother's wife was getting a beer from the cool box he saw her eyes roll at that, and how she threw the beer high in the air, like a grenade, making Scott both dodge and lunge to catch it before it hit the bricks.

 **"That's** not how you do it!" he exclaimed, shaking his head as he took it away to open over the grass, as if any of that had been accidental -- but Pentecost caught her eye, almost by accident, and saw her lift the one eyebrow like Spock again, and nodded back, imperceptibly to anyone else.

It was a relief that Scott had no desire to spend the entire holiday crammed into a small bungalow with a small fussy child, and took off with some other mates to go to more glamorous parties in the big city, before too long -- at least for **him** , and he thought for her as well, though he thought they both felt the same pang at Herc's obvious (to them, at any rate) cheerful pretence that of course it was fine, he knew his brother had lots of plans and appreciated him staying as long as he could...

Because of this, Pentecost made an extra effort to socialize, instead of retreating to the outskirts and letting the party happen around him as he ordinarily would on such occasions -- but the Hansens' friends weren't like professional people in elite circles, nor was there the wretched undercurrent of middle-sized fish in a very tiny barrel that one got at parties hosted by Wing Commanders and their wives, or **through** their wives really, and the gruesome competition of unposted regulations for advancement, from which he was barred as **single** , even before black, working-class, East End, or eccentric -- any of which enough to set him apart as "not a proper officer" in the RAF's little pond.

And because of **that** , the party sparked in a way that it would never have, had Scott Hansen remained with his loud cheerful conventional laddish humour, because as Pentecost began to enjoy himself engaging in conversation, actually **_engaging_** and not constantly running analyses on every statement, just as if he were with any of his few other friends, **other** people found themselves drawn in by his energy.

Which meant that Herc melted with relief, that his new friend was getting along so well with his old ones, both RAAF and civilian. Neither of them had any idea -- on the one hand that the effort had been made as a **_stepping-up_** to provide support in a vulnerable moment rather than simple inclination -- and on the other, that his own active charisma had **brought out** that welcoming brightness he found so engaging in his fellow party-goers, only that it was the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, that he regretted the ending of a party.

(Angela Hansen saw, of course, but said nothing to either of the men, then **or** after -- only treasured it up as something real and wonderful but too ephemeral to bear touching, like soap bubbles.)

Come Boxing Day he worried all over again, just as if he hadn't worried when he purchased the gifts, and again when he wrapped them, but the three books he'd brought seemed to hit their marks.

At least, the two large photographic essays, of the California coastline and the Lakes Region, both of them arty rather than touristy, which he'd chosen for Herc and his wife respectively, on the grounds that they would both peruse -- and ideally enjoy! -- them, but an English gift would be **exotic** rather than feel like some sort of message of regret and loss carried through him from Angela's parents, whereas a general memento of the scene of their adventures wouldn't carry an aggressive nostalgia, to her husband, but would serve as a pleasant reminder (or so he hoped.)

The plasticized book-shaped objects, which had pages made out of pasteboard that was more like hardboard and were also covered in plastic, set in a composite plastic frame, which the bookstore clerks had helped him pick out of a truly **overwhelming** array of baby-targeted books and book-shaped objects, were also a hit -- with Chuck's parents, because he'd apparently made the right decision in taking both, when unable to decide between _Thomas the Tank Engine_ and _Sesame Street_ (thus acknowledging both The Commonwealth and The Colonies in the family background) but most importantly, with the smallest Hansen, too.

It was funny, because in spite of everything he couldn't **quite** shake the chilly little doubt that they were only being polite, admiring his gifts because he was their guest, and thought them quite hideously inappropriate -- but a toddler mashing buttons on a book-with-built-in-noisemaker, over and over again, all of them at once or singly with cross-eyed intensity? No possible room for doubt, there!

They had given him an elegant pictorial wall calendar of Australia (from Angela), a blank journal bound in kangaroo leather (which Herc had thoughtfully packaged in a fruitcake tin, and wrapped again, for extra impact) and an interesting rock, with translucent stripes like gemstone or semicrystalized sugar on one cut face inside a plain round shell, (which was from Chuck! and called a 'thunderegg') -- all of them quite small enough to fit in his carry-on, and he kept taking them out and looking at them, and putting them back, and then taking them out the next time he needed anything from his bags, quite utterly charmed by the thoughtfulness of them all. (Even the fruitcake ruse.)

It was already an act of defiance to tradition to **be** here, to have carefully arranged it far enough in advance so he would be able to take his remaining leave over the winter holidays -- instead of being the one who volunteered to cover for other people's Christmas travels wherever he happened to be stationed, so as to have an unimpeachable excuse to stay far from the Septic Aisle -- but now he compounded it by not making phone calls, even.

The problem was, **if** he called Luna, his sister would ask if he'd called their mum yet, and if he **had** , ask if she had **_Said Anything?_** which as she never did would mean an angry rant that he could only say, "I know, I know" to -- and if he hadn't, give him angry messages to pass along, which **he** never did, except to say, in strictest truth, "Luna said to say she's thinking of you," which would always get a five-second pause, and then their mother would start talking again about whatever she had been, as if that five seconds had been a mental tape-erasure gap.

And calling his mother at her sister's in Bristol meant either running a gauntlet of whichever aunt, uncle or cousin answered the telephone, and **their** chilly disapproval, the delightfully contradictory refrain of **_You ought to BE here even though we don't want you around, why can't you at least make the effort to PRETEND to be a decent and respectful son, the way you fool everyone else into thinking you're a decent and respectable human being?_**

The problem was, when he talked about the parts of his job that he was both allowed to and thought interesting, **_they_** thought he was showing off, being snobby, or just **unpatriotic** \-- it was all very well to go serve the Crown in foreign parts, but you weren't supposed to sound so **enthusiastic** about it, or at least not the things **he** liked to talk about, the landscapes and the little shops and the ways that everything from gardens to take-away to the public transportation systems were so different, and yet **also** not completely--

You weren't supposed to sound like you preferred it to being **home** , in the mother country, in other words...

He couldn't say, even to them, **_But I AM a stranger there, so it doesn't hurt that they treat me like one,_** and worse yet to say out loud, **_and most of them treat me with more respect, at least to my face,_** because he really didn't want to hear from his uncle the Navy vet that names didn't matter, that **everybody** insulted everybody **else** in the (real!) military, and you just had to grow a thicker skin! it wasn't like any of them **meant** anything by it --

It wasn't his father's memory alone he'd been defying, he was sharply aware now, in that **_masquerade_** back in California, nor the abstraction **Britannia** either, but everyone and everything in between!

He would have **liked** , he thought, to tell his cousins about funny things he'd seen on television overseas, or plays he'd attended, and multi-lingual puns in newspaper cartoons, and share pictures of things that had caught his eye -- cats sleeping on fallen Forum columns (Bast triumphant over the Caesars' glories!) or flocks of brightly-coloured motor scooters, looking retro and futuristic at once, or solemn storks doing their stalking through farmers' fields, as if they were posing for a screen painter hundreds of years ago -- but he would need a different grade of cousins for that to work.

 **Not** ones who chuckled or smiled condescendingly at the un-Englishness of it all, or commented on how it looked so poor and dirty over there, or shrugged that it didn't look any different from shows on the telly (so why was he wasting their time?) --

And still less ones like the male cousins and uncles who got him alone and wanted him to talk about **_girls,_** and he **really** could have done without knowing how creepy certain members of his family were, even if they weren't any different from his father's old drinking companions -- and since he refused to admit to any **_wenching_** (because of course he **must** be taking advantage of his travels) they assumed that he was just being a dishonest prude, **or** that he really must be gay after all.

That certainly was part of the subtext when he did get their mother on the line, the unspoken **_You're not going to turn out like your sister, are you?_** that was under all the **_When will I get to hold my grandchildren?_** and **_Your father would be so unhappy to think that his name won't be carried on_** \-- to which, **_Then why did he saddle me with a dead man's?_** never got an answer --

Except her sighing about how she missed him **_so much_** \-- not that she had shown **any** liking for him when he was alive, and had wasted no time changing everything about her life, with every sign of relieved satisfaction, as soon as Stephen Pentecost was safely buried with his Oak Leaves. It was like she had a prepared text she was reading off of, which had **nothing** to do with reality, the sort of thing you would look for hidden code words to set off alarms that someone was being held under duress -- but nobody **was** , any more, and yet she refused to stop playing the role. 'Family' was just another word for 'Stockholm Syndrome,' he'd thought ever since he first heard the term in secondary school.

He thought about it, and decided that the Hansens **didn't** need to deal with the grim, bleak mood that would result, or with him trying **and** failing to be his normal even-tempered self after that, because fool his colleagues as it did, he knew better than to think **_they_** wouldn't see through it in a flash.

So instead he sent Luna and Tamsin e-mail cards of cartoon kangaroos dressed up as Father Christmas -- though given how they seemed to behave more like deer in Eastern America, grazing by the roadside or lolloping over lawns in the early morning hours, they **ought** to be pulling the sledge instead! -- and a photo of red-and-green decorations downtown surrounded by subtropical greenery, which would irritate them and make them laugh -- which was **also** part of a little brother's bailiwick, even if he rarely fulfilled that duty -- and texted them that he missed them and wished they were here, and they should try to arrange their leave time to come see **him** , sometime.

Which was a bit of an imposition, and thus **not** like him, even if it was hardly an outrageous or unwarranted one. (Even if he did second-guess himself, after he'd sent it and it was too late.)

He thought about sending something similar (but less personally revealing) to their mother, and then found an absolutely cliché (though beautifully rendered) card of Victorian carollers in the snow, complete with magpie houses, thatched roofs, holly and ribbons -- which was actually from an American series of illustrations of Ye Olde English Traditional Christmas -- and though he knew that all the layers of meaning he intended thereby would be either missed, **or** ignored (except for the bit about it being an email rather than a physical card, as poor substitute for his physical presence) he sent it anyway.

Later on, when it was really Christmas Day by the clock, though they were still cleaning up from the barbecue, he got a text that read **_Hercules Hansen, did you steal my brother's phone and computer?_** and one from Tamsin saying, **_Who is this, and how did you manage to possess Stacker?_** and he laughed.

(When one of his aunts wrote him back later still about how hurt his mum was that he hadn't called on Christmas Day, only sent a card (and not even a **real** card!) he responded with some blither about the International Date Line and deleted her email without a qualm.)

Days passed thereafter, in which the irregular routines of two separate jobs and day care and the approach of the next holiday flowed and fitted around him without too much awkward friction -- he meshed into the regular tasks and also helping-about-the-place with the same ease that he'd found at the Martins', and both Brisbane and the southwestern suburban area the Hansens lived were diverse enough along multiple axes that he **didn't** feel especially out of place there. (Keenly aware that his Vietnamese language skills were minimal, perhaps, but not unwelcome, at least.)

It **might** even be the case, he was willing to concede, that the stares he sometimes got, whether he was out alone or with one or the other or all of them, were due more to his height than his colour, because he absolutely **refused** to consider Angela's repeated insistence that people were simply struck by his extraordinary good looks -- **_Stop that, you're only saying so to embarrass me,_** he'd insist, only to have Herc chime in that false modesty was a terrible crime, they **knew** he'd looked in a mirror lately, else how could he shave that evenly?

There was picking up the repaired ambulance from the garage (another complicated logistics problem of multiple vehicles and this time, public transport) and returning it to the hospital, which meant, yes, trying out the sirens **_at_** the garage to make sure the mechanics hadn't broken them, and no, he managed not to sink down in his seat while Angela grinned and waved at passers-by, but it was a near thing.

"This is the biggest perk of **being** an ambo, dude!"

"Right, they give you a giant **noisemaker** \--" The thing was, he knew she took her job terribly seriously (and much of it was terrible indeed, making a mockery of his own branch of the service in terms of gore and violence witnessed or dealt **_with_** , rather than **out** , and at no high-altitude distance either) and that it was a gruelling schedule with lots of night hours, and yet, here they were -- "Are we done **playing** yet?"

That got escalation, as Paramedic Hansen hopped out and started looking under the bonnet, with the frantic gestures of someone trying to figure out a short in their car alarm system. So, naturally, he rolled down the passenger window and shouted, **"That's** it, I'm telling your mum!" as he waved his cell phone threateningly.

 **"You're** no fun!"

"The word you're looking for is **_nuisance_** , you'll find. I'm going to start **pushing buttons** on your panel till I find the one that shuts it down--"

"You better not!" But it was too late, he'd already started, which meant that in addition to the whooping siren there was the audio system now blasting out something that sounded a little bit Turkish but mostly not--

"Oh! **That's** where that CD went! I was looking all over for it!" She scrambled back in, turned the siren off, and set off to make their return trip as sedately if the previous aberration had never happened.

"So is this 'Men At Work' or 'In Excess'?"

"Heh." She looked at him oddly, as if she wasn't sure if this was her being messed with or not. "Neither -- this is a different oldie. It's got the song from one of my favourite movies **_ever_** \-- well, it's not **in** the movie but it was used **for** the movie-- here, listen," punching up a different track and unleashing some sort of wild symphonic blend of mediaeval dance and rock beats, before a woman's voice like silver threads played with a bow of ice carolled of owl-haunted woods and holy trees--

 ** _"This_** is pop music?"

"Shhh!"

But then she started singing along and --

 ** _Oh -- the blind would fall in love with her for that alone, small wonder Herc can't stop talking about her!_** And he felt regret -- though it would have changed and complicated everything, in ways that might never have led to this visit at all -- that she hadn't been able to come out together as they'd planned, because he wished he'd been able to hear **her** sing that night, too.

(That evening he will make the mistake of saying so, to Herc, and be promptly assured that they were **planning** to take him to their favourite karaoke bar here before he left, no worries! But **that** trouble was safely in the future, for now.)

The whole of the disc seemed like the distillation of The First Circle's essence into one composite sound, even before they reached the song that shared its inspiration:

_...beyond the ice and fire!_   
**** _Cast your eyes on the ocean--_   
_Cast your soul to the sea--_   
_When the dark night seems endless--_   
_please remember me..._

"You've got to give me the name of this when we get home," he said, as they pulled onto the hospital grounds.

"Oh, I'll burn you a copy," she assured him, and didn't understand when he protested that no, of course he could (and would) buy his own, and there was a horrible awkward conversation in which it became clear that there was some sort of uncrossable gulf of beliefs, a personal culture clash which ended in **him** trying helplessly and repeatedly to assure her that he wasn't judging her, and her trying to assure him as futilely that **she** didn't think he was calling them thieves really--

And they went round and round gloomily and desperately -- only hiated by the need to be discreet on the buses they took back to retrieve the wagon at the garage -- resuming and continuing after they got back to the house, as it got closer and closer to the time for Herc to arrive, and he was sitting on the back veranda with his eyes closed, wishing he could just roll back reality to the point before he started pushing buttons--

And a warm, solid, puppy-sized body was settled on his knees, and he looked down to find the baby goggling up at him, with that uncertain, semi-focused stare that made toddlers always look slightly inebriated, especially with their wobbling balance, as the screen door banged shut--

 ** _A feral goblin-child as a peace offering?_** he thought, smiling unevenly as he locked his hands behind the juniormost Hansen's back -- really, he didn't understand why all these other men of his acquaintance made such a big deal about how difficult and frightening it was to hold babies, obviously they weren't as fragile as **that** (though he was **not** about to try Herc's trick of dangling the lad upside down by one leg) and if you could keep an aircraft dozens of meters long in check by being aware of the least shifts of the control yoke, **surely** you could keep a half-meter-sized human from lurching off course!

"Hey," he said, "do you want to go looking for lizards?"

"Whuuuh," said Chuck, lunging sideways without success.

"You're not much of a conversationalist," Pentecost shook his head. "I'll take that as a **yes,** then. No, you **can't bite,** biting's **not** on the schedule--"

They wandered about the yard, the boy hanging over his arm and shouting rhythmic sequences in nothing resembling English, not even distantly -- he was certain that all the words his parents claimed to hear in it were pattern-seeking behaviour, nothing more! while he poked about with a long stick, turning over leaves and branches.

(He'd spent the entire plane trip studying up on common Eastern Australian fauna in the guidebook, to be confident in identifying the dangerous ones -- and realized that the main problem was, the big scary ones weren't dangerous and the dangerous ones were good at going undetected, and the more he read the more he wondered why **everyone** here didn't live in hermetically sealed buildings the way that Americans did who could afford it, and never go outside at all. Then they would go out and everyone would be walking about, playing ball in parks, mowing their lawns, and he would forget about the poison snakes and the poison spiders and all of it, for at least an hour or so.)

He hadn't really expected the quest to yield any lizards, so when they found one at last it was as much a treat for him as it was for young Chuck, who reached for it with flailing enthusiasm.

"No, that's a skink, and it will bite **much** harder than you can, so we're only goin' to look at it. It's **either** a blue-tongued or a pink-tongued skink, according to the book -- but we can't know for certain unless it's angry enough to try to bite us, in what the books call a 'hostile display' -- which seems like something of an **understatement**. "

**"Gnch."**

"Skink. **SKINK**. **You** can say it, I've heard you say S **and** K before. **_Skink,"_** he repeated, slowly and clearly, while the child drooled and muttered and made disturbing grabbing motions towards the basking reptile, as though he dreamed of eating it raw and whole.

 ** _He probably does, come to think of it,_** Pentecost reflected, considering that there seemed to be nothing he wouldn't chew on or attempt to ingest, left to himself.

"Ssss. Skuh."

"That's a start," he said encouragingly. "Skink."

"Kah."

"No, skink -- **or** lizard," wondering if that apparent 'car' had been an accident, if he was pattern-seeking himself, now. **"Skink."**

 **"Kah!** **_KAHH!"_**

"I **suspect** you're trying to put one over on me," and then he wondered if that was some sort of final extreme of paranoia, to suspect a child so small he was barely ambulatory, and either almost or entirely non-lingual, of **_guile._** So he turned around and pointed to the wagon in the drive. "What is **that?"**

"Skiiiinkh," drawled Chuck, with a blissfully vacant grin, and bit him on the wrist again.

"Oh yeah, you'll fit **right in** here," he sighed. "Wow, you're a mess, aren't you? How did you **get** so filthy? I never even set you down. Were you this grubby when your mum handed you to me, and I just didn't **_notice?"_** But the toddler could shed no light on this, of course. "Let's get you cleaned up before your **dad** gets home, all right?"

When he carried the boy into the kitchen to ask about where they kept the baby clothing, Angela leaned against him, putting her arm around his back.

"I'm -- not Herc," he said, awkwardly, thinking she must have mistaken him for her husband coming in the front door like that.

"I know," she smiled up at him with reddened eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything," as he thought, **_But you're making me uncomfortable now--_**

All he could think was what a set-up for either a tragedy or a farce this looked like, the classic "romantic misunderstanding" of a thousand plays and movies and folk songs, all the endless variations on human stupidity, meaning masculine jealousy and feminine obliviousness to the same, and--

"Everything okay?" Herc had come in quietly, eerily quietly for his size, and did his thing of speaking right up beside him -- the only good thing was, it was so inevitable that he didn't even give a clichéd guilty start as his friend leaned on both their shoulders, hanging over them. "I got your **text** , sweetheart," his expression anxious as he looked first down at her, then up at him -- "I guess the kid's not asleep yet?"

"I'm sorry, I--" **_I insulted your wife and made her cry and now she's hugging me--_**

The red-haired man gave him a worried smile, slipping his arms around them both.

"Hey, you're a Cleric, she's a Rogue, but we're all **_Good_** , right?"

And the funny thing was, when Herc put it like **that** , he no longer had any qualms -- **of course** they would all quest together, Lawful didn't have to mean 'wowser,' as they'd all discussed the other night. (Their other gaming friends -- one of whom was the horrifically apologetic and grovelling Liam, who ironically always played Barbarian warriors -- had been great fun, and the Nguyen sisters, Phuong, who was a Dwarven archer, and Kim, who was an Elven engineer, because as both of them said, **somebody _should_** be, seemed as at home in the Hansens' house as he was -- or rather more -- though he was still unclear on how they all knew each other.)

"I'm still **_sorry,"_** he apologized again, but before they could start **yet another** round of it, Chuck screeched, **_"DAAAAAAHHH!"_** and leaning gracefully across like a Baroque cherub in an Austrian chapel, sank his fangs into Herc's ear...

After they stopped the bleeding with a styptic pencil and had -- **_the evening meal,_** since arguing loudly over what it was called was evidently a long-standing Hansen-Martin family tradition on this side of the Pacific, something Herc notably **hadn't** done in L.A. -- Angela announced that they were going to watch a movie, because the two of them hadn't watched it in a long time and Stacker had **never** seen it, and that was as bad as somebody never watching _Star Wars_ or _The Princess Bride_ \-- "You **have** seen them, right?"

The three of them (vampire child now safely bathed and put to bed) settled on the sofa -- they put him in the middle, "Because you're the tallest," she explained, "that way if either of us falls asleep we can lean on you," but he heard the unspoken **_Share,_** and part of him would have shrunk away -- but there was no direction to, except into himself again, and the warmth on either side was too attractive.

So they all watched what was indeed a beautifully filmed version of the Cinderella story as it claimed, albeit without magic or mice, in a mundane setting, and not entirely childish, either.

He couldn't help but argue about the historical (in)accuracies, though, in spite of both Hansens poking him in the ribs, until finally Herc said, "Shhh! It's **_Genua_** , okay?" and so he shut up, and after that he had no trouble enjoying it as a story.

When it ended, having followed both the outward form and the inward morality play with elements drawn from several national traditions, making no great waves in its telling but raising some interesting ripples, he would have **liked** to discuss the matter of fictive historicity -- it had so much in common with his own work! -- and the whole business of stories having their own life, so to speak.

But his hosts, who **weren't** on leave, and over the past several days had both worked multiple full shifts, if not synchronized ones, weren't quite asleep, **yet.**

"Do we **have** to get up? I don't want to move."

"No, 's our place. We can **all** sleep here, if we want."

"Do you **mind** , Stacker?"

He shrugged.

"It's **your** place, as you say."

"Dude. Not what I **_asked,"_** she yawned, managing to sound snarky and American and older-sister-like all at once, though he was the eldest of them.

"Not at all." It wasn't **exactly** a lie, **_This is strange and unfamiliar and feels like I'm playing a part in a sitcom_** wasn't the same as **minding** , quite--

"Good. Could you reach down the throw on the back of the couch?" which he did, unfolding the crocheted afghan across them (because warm as it still was in the Southern Hemisphere summer night, you needed a cover of some sort to sleep properly) while Herc pulled the coffee table right up so the two men could rest their feet on it while Angela pulled hers up on the cushions beside, curling up against him like a cat.

Pentecost stayed awake for a long while after, listening to them breathe, feeling the gentle, uneven weight of them against his sides, and tried to figure out if he felt surprised by this at all, or not. On balance, he thought **_not_** : it felt as though they'd **always** known each other, on some level...

And then he must have fallen asleep, because it was grey dawn and there was an air-raid wail coming from the back bedroom, and Herc staggering off to take care of it while the boy's mother made an exasperated sound and pulled the blanket completely over her head, so that when her husband plunked their offspring down on top of her, she was well-protected -- which meant that Pentecost woke up completely very quickly, being a much more interesting height to scale, and learned that waking up to a headbump on the head, a pair of staring, slightly crossed eyes at close range, and a drooling, almost-but- **_not-QUITE_** toothless maw in easy striking distance is more effective than any alarm clock.

"Don't even **think** of it," he warned, wondering if this was any more use than warning off a velociraptor.

Chuck Hansen glared, wobbled, bit his **own** finger, leaned closer and then tumbled over sideways, because ankles were apparently something he was still learning to control as well, landing on his mother too hard for her to ignore.

 ** _"Oh for_** \-- Herc, I'm gonna **slaughter you!"** she shouted, popping up from under the afghan and grabbing her son like a human-sized trap-door spider.

"Your fry-up's not done yet," he called back cheerfully.

 **"After** brekkie, then." And she lurched off in the direction of their bedroom and the bath, the baby clamped under one arm (backwards and upside-down), the patchwork throw tangled and trailing around her legs like the draperies on some very satirical allegorical statue.

 ** _I could be in some mid-range hotel right now,_** Pentecost thought as he made his own bleary way to his luggage and dug out his shaving kit and clean clothes, waiting for the shower to be free. **_I could be working over the holidays as usual, so as to not have to deal with my family, and saving up my leave for a hiking trip in as close-to-nowhere as is possible any more!_**

 ** _Why did I EVER think that was likely to be better than this?_** All his fears of unwelcome and non-belonging seemed foolish, in the light of the Australian day.

 **"Thanks** for putting up with all this craziness," Angela said after they'd eaten and Herc (unslaughtered) had headed off to base, and Chuck had only managed to get in a single bite to each man, under the table, because knees were just the right height and Herc didn't really notice and Pentecost hadn't learned to be wary of ground-level humanoid predators yet. "I **know** it's nothing like my parents' house," to which he replied seriously, "But it is, really," and pretended he didn't notice her blink and swallow hard, over his words.

He knew the bungalow had been significantly funded **by** her parents, that Herc's late father had squandered most of his pay on drinks and smokes and the racetrack in a trifecta straight out of Kipling's cavalry corps, that they **both** struggled to figure out how to manage on their own, Angela in a setting so very different while **seeming** so similar to the one she'd grown up in, Herc not having any more knowledge of what a proper household looked like -- besides what he'd got from children's books -- than Pentecost himself did.

And yet it was **home** , only the second place after his grandparents' flat that had ever felt like it -- and he'd come to dread even those stays with his Granddad and Nana because of their uncertain but inevitable end, and return to grim normalcy -- and so what if it was noisy and cramped and full of strange plastic and fluffy toys underfoot, and a proving ground for the theorem that "anklebiter" wasn't **just** a joking designation for very juvenile humans?

Granted, he did sometimes think that his quiet lodgings would be a relief, when the fortnight was up, but he wasn't **_longing_** for them, not at all--

In the meantime, he offered -- not sure if it was appropriate, not sure if it would be accepted even if it were -- to look after Chuck on the days when both his parents had to go to work, if it would save them care centre fees (and **not** cause trouble with their day nursery to do so for the duration of his visit.)

But the Hansens, after being somewhat shocked, apparently, at the offer, by the way they protested that that was too **much** , they couldn't possibly -- but it **would** really help, if -- but no, they **couldn't** \-- at which point he said, **_Why not?_** It seemed like a waste for him to spend the day lounging around here waiting for them to get back, or doing his own thing in downtown Brisbane, while they paid someone else to mind the baby, when he could as easily combine both enterprises, seeing as he was already helping bathe him, change his nappies, feed him his porridge and stop him from chewing on electrical cords?

Herc and Angela looked at each other with a shared expression of guilty speculation, and he raised his hands, indicating both the genuineness of the offer and the ridiculousness of their scruples, and that was it.

And so, for the remaining duration of their visit, for those hours he had neither adult Hansen for company, he kept their juniormost company, amusing both of them by means of the laser pointer from his briefcase, fending off (most) attempts at biting, and after the seventh frustration of Chuck's attempts to climb up onto furniture and fling himself off of it, taking him out on the town to distract him.

That very few bachelors with no experience of younger siblings would **dream** of taking a toddler on an outing in a strange city, armed with nothing but research and observation, a bus schedule printed out from the internet, strong navigation skills, guidebook, cell phone, and a hiking backpack full of everything from nappies to sunscreen to prepared rations for both of them to a military first aid kit he'd spotted under the toaster oven -- would not have deterred him in the slightest.

(The risk of sandal loss he mitigated -- satisfactorily -- with the application of long, narrow wraps of gaffer tape over the fastenings, which proved as much beyond opposable-but-severely-undersized thumbs as Velcro was beyond mammals lacking them.)

Much of their outings were spent in trying, futilely, to teach, or **convince,** the boy to talk, as if Chuck were a particularly stubborn and bad-tempered parrot -- an impression never contradicted by his behaviour, what with the alternating bites, shrieks, and flailing attempts to take flight from whatever height he was currently being held at.

Pentecost found it remarkably easy to anticipate and forestall these efforts, although he did grow nearly as blasé about the bites as Herc after a while, because his attention was divided between the small human and the large city with its sights -- which he narrated to his passenger without **any** attempt to dumb down the content to the level of a pre-preschooler.

That, truth be told, was the source of **most** of the stares they got, because anyone reading aloud from _Lonely Planet: Australia_ to a toddler, and periodically stopping to tell them seriously, "There **will** be a quiz on this," was begging for quizzical looks.

He did wonder, once it was very much too late to think better of the project, if he was likely to be taken up for kidnapping, if he ought to have brought his summer working dress and worn it regardless, or borrowed one of Herc's uniforms and tried to fake a local accent -- then decided that if **anything** was likely to cause farcical levels of confusion and ruin, **_that_** would do it.

Most of the looks they got didn't seem to be hostile at all, but even rather sympathetic -- granted, **he** would look much more sympathetically from now on towards parents with flailing youngsters at wits end (either parents, or youngsters) since the inability to communicate seemed to be responsible for most of the distress.

The remainder appeared to be about equally divided between (loosely translating) **_Why can't I do this fun but self-destructive thing?_** and **_I didn't sign up for this! --_** for which there really was no answer, although Herc's solution of swinging his son upside down by one leg until he forgot what he was fussing about did seem to work more often than one would expect.

He made a note in his new journal to see if there were some sort of known brain circulatory mechanism that would trigger temporary memory loss by being turned upside down -- NASA would know, if anyone did...

The actual pattern, which he lacked sufficiently broad experience in sufficiently specialized areas to interpret correctly, went like this: women with children, or who were anticipating having children, saw them, thought **_What a good stepfather!_** and smiled with a mix of approbation and envy, or even hope that they would be so lucky themselves, while men who had children or were anticipating babies in the near future, looked worried that they would be expected to follow suit.

This was **especially** true when Chuck was trying to bite passers-by, or had succeeded in wresting something out of the backpack and had thrown it, or worse still, was **attempting** to throw it and screaming bloody murder at all efforts to take it from him without breaking his fingers (or getting bitten in the process, though that was a concern so far secondary in magnitude it barely appeared at all.)

One such couple, who obviously didn't have long to wait for their own turn at the authentic joys-of-parenting experience, managed to catch the tail end of an episode in which the frenzied plunge towards the key ring turned out to be a **_feint_** to deflect attention while the **real** goal of the guidebook was attained, and that only retrieved at the cost of several torn pages and blood drawn.

 ** _Well, that was why I brought the medical kit,_** Pentecost thought as he hit it with the styptic pen. **_It's not as bad as a horsefly bite..._**

 **"Next** time, I'm taking your father's advice. It will be **you** , the **rucksack** , and a handful of **granola** ," he warned Chuck, currently pinned gibbering under his knee on the park lawn while he re-stowed their gear, hopefully more securely this time! He did so in German, however, mindful of Angela's warnings that people tended to look askance at even humorous suggestions of that nature.

"All right, up you go -- did you just eat a **slug?** Now **why** would you eat a raw slug? You just **had** a quarter of an avocado. I guess it's some sort of hunter-gatherer instinct..."

Hoisting the still-grumbling Hansen to a position from which he could neither bite nor kick, Pentecost noticed the sunburned young man hanging back along the pathway as his companion headed towards a nearby bench

 ** _Please don't say anything,_** he thought, sensing the futility of it even before the worried looking Australian asked him, "Is he **yours?"**

 **"No.** This is a loaner baby," he explained, in hopes that would deflect further discussion. Unfortunately it had the opposite effect.

"A **loaner _baby!?"_**

"Yeah, like a loaner **car** \-- you can try one out, **see** if it's for you before you get one of your own? It's a new programme for prospective parents," he extemporised, based on some of the literature and placards he'd seen around the hospital when they had gone in to drop off the keys to the ambulance.

The other man looked even more shocked than he had at Pentecost's impromptu toddler-containment methods. (His partner, on the other hand, had watched **very** closely, with the expression of someone making mental notes.)

"That **seems** very dangerous!"

"Oh, they're not **real** babies," Pentecost assured him. **"Androids.** Like CPR dummies, you know?" Somehow this just seemed like a very good time to **also** practice an American accent...

 ** _"Really?_** It looks **awfully** realistic."

"Well, they'd **have** to be, wouldn't they? Otherwise it wouldn't be very effective as **practice** , would it?"

The man nodded, his brow furrowing at this plausible rationale.

"Is it **supposed** to be doing that?"

Since the youngest Hansen was currently crossing and uncrossing one eye, with a sort of tic in his cheek on that side combined with a **_clicking_** sound, Stacker understood the question. He shook his head.

"Beta model. I'm part of the field test team. Still got a few **bugs** to work out."

"Yeah, I can **tell,"** the father-to-be flinched, as a long thread of drool extended towards the pavement. "Good luck--?" He edged away after his partner, and Pentecost felt a momentary pang at his deception, realizing that the other man now thought that **he** wouldn't have to deal with any of that sort of thing.

**_Well, maybe they aren't ALL like this one..._ **

(Two months later, he will receive a text flagged "urgent" from a number he doesn't recognize -- it being an emergency services pager:

**_WTF STACKER? LOANER BABIES? HOW MANY PEOPLE DID YOU TELL MY SON WAS A CYBORG?_ **

**_Half a dozen, maybe? 2 million people in Brisbane, what odds they'd run into any of you guys? That's so statistically unlikely, I'll need to run some models on that._ **

**_I HAD TO TAKE HIS PICTURE OFF THE BULLETIN BOARD AT THE ADMISSIONS DESK! PEOPLE KEEP ASKING FOR ONE!_ **

**_I don't know why. I told them it was only a prototype & there wasn't a release date yet. Besides, they saw him in action._ **

**_I WAS BLAMING HERC TIL THEY GAVE ME YOUR DESCRIPTION! ALSO WTF AMERICAN ACCENT JUST LIKE GUY IN ROBOT MOVIE ENQUOTE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO?_ **

**_Whatever it is, it's transmitted by biting._ **

**_I MEAN YOU AND HERC! NO DONT ANSWER THAT. IF YOURE BOTH ALIENS OR CYBORGS OR MUTANTS I DON'T WANT TO KNOW_ **

**_I really am sorry for the inconvenience. Tell them it was a film promotion, next time?_ **

**_NEVERMIND IVE GOT A CROSSBOW VICTIM TO DEAL WITH NOW. YOU GUYS STUPID TRICKS JUST FELL OFF TONIGHTS RATINGS_ **

And when he tries to apologize to **Herc** , Chuck's father thinks it's even funnier than it seemed to **_him_** at the time, and can't stop chortling over the thought of people wandering into the hospitals asking after "loaner babies" and "baby cyborgs" except to put him on hold so that he can get his in-laws on speakerphone to share the joke and Pentecost's best Will Smith impersonation...)

The fallout of ill-advised Tanith-Lee-and-inspired-by-Isaac Asimov-inspired mash-ups were still a safe distance in the future when they went down to the seaside, which turned out to be a grand two-and-a-half-day production using up some of Herc's leave and Angela's vacation time, not a quick jaunt like he'd expected -- but the Hansens decided to make it a two-day return to the barrier island where they'd actually met, where there was diving and surfing and several small resort areas.)

This felt **_very_** potentially-awkward, on several levels **none** of which he cared to explore, except they'd invited Liam and the Nguyens along, and Kim was bringing her boyfriend (who had been stuck working the night of the session but was apparently just **as** agreeable) and the numbers and distribution would have added an additional layer of awkward, if it **hadn't** been for that previous acquaintance.

He'd been the target of enough matchmaking attempts from his own family, and semi-serious ones, or at least of the "set these unattached people up on a date, so we don't have them underfoot" sort, from people he knew through his work, to be wary of social occasions where unattached extra numbers were added to the party.

Luna had remarked that she'd quite rapidly come to expect, when she was invited to some affair that she never would have expected, that there would be one, and one only, **single** "black or minority ethnic" pilot at the event -- at least, would be lucky, if he were a pilot, so they would in fact have **_anything_** to talk about, as they were seated beside each other with a fulsome, "you must have so much to talk about!" by white hostesses who hadn't the slightest idea how ridiculously rude it was -- "Thank Strasbourg, is all I've got to say," she laughed, Tamsin getting her own version of the eligibility roulette, before 1999 set them free of that at least.

So theoretically it **could** be a sort of open-minded matching attempted, inviting both male and female single guests along on the outing, but really he wasn't getting that feeling, though he couldn't tell if Phuong and Liam were an item or not, neither from the way they'd bickered (in character) all the way through the game night, nor anything else, and he really thought that both of the Hansens would be much more blunt and forthright, if they had any notions of fixing him up with anyone! In any event, he soon had more serious concerns.

When it had been nothing but a day-trip, he'd thought to offer to split petrol costs, but not to argue about it if his hosts insisted. But when he heard serious conversation about whether they should camp instead of renting a beach house -- or possibly pack all their things, and all the beach things, **_and everyone,_** into the Wavemobile to save on money by only paying ferry fees on one vehicle, he couldn't keep silent any longer.

"You wouldn't have even **thought** of doing this trip, if I weren't here, would you? So please -- **let me** bear the additional expenditure. Half of it, at least. Otherwise I **won't** be able to enjoy myself, the whole time I'll be worrying over whether **you're** going to be living on bread and water for the next year, to make up for it."

"Look," Herc said, leaning over the kitchen table, earnestly. "I understand, but -- we're **_not the Weasleys._** I've got a steady job that pays decent, Angela's job has pretty good hours, we're doin okay! This is a treat for all of us, not just puttin' on a show for you."

"Herc, I think I know where we're both coming from, here," **_\-- army dads who never had a pound -- a dollar? -- for their families, but always stood the rounds for their mates, and trying to do better than that!_** "--and I don't want to embarrass you or have you think I think you're not responsible, not at all. But I can't just **take** from you guys. I **don't** have anyone else to spend my salary on, so let me **help** , **_please."_**

"You already **did,"** Angela said, grabbing his wrist and giving his arm a little shake. " **Most** of this is covered by what we saved from day care, because of you."

He couldn't read her quite well enough to tell if she were being truthful or wishful, but gave the benefit of doubt.

"Then I won't really have saved you anything at all, will I?" He shook his head. "Okay, how about this? I'd refuse to **ride** with six adults and a baby carrier plus all our picnic things plus surfboards on the top of it, **_except_** I **don't** believe the Wavemobile will **budge** with us all in it." He ticked off the points on his fingers. **"But** if it did, I'm **still** not spending an hour -- if the traffic's good! -- jammed into that thing with all of you like sardines. So I'm paying the ferry for the second car, even if I'm the only one in it!"

"I thought you didn't like driving." Angela looked at him with suspicion.

"It's not the absolute **worst** thing."

"But you don't even **have** an Australian license, do you?"

"Technicalities," he brushed it off, and when she wondered about the cops, "Like they're going pull **me** over, with that monstrosity rolling out in front of your little Subaru. I'll wear one of your uniforms," raising his eyebrows at Herc, "they'll wave **me** right past as they tear the Holden apart for drugs -- and they'll probably **_find_** some, if Liam's pals have been messing about with the seats while high."

"You just love coming up with worst case **_everythings_** , don't you?"

"What, the RAAF **doesn't _do_** contingency planning?" and Herc flung up his hands.

"Fine, you win, we'll take **both** cars."

"Wait, you **can't** stop yet -- I've got **lots** of arguments left!"

"But we," said Angela, brightly, "are reasonable people, **unlike** the ones you're used to at work."

"An' that way, we c'n afford to rent a boat this time!" At which point he just gave up and resigned himself to being as useful as he could manage, in spite of it all.

That turned out to be very, when it came to getting them sorted out, although the combined Hansen-Martin efficiency rating was extremely good, they had streamlined the process of flinging necessary stuff together and no hesitation or waffling over what to bring or leave in classic family comedy manner; he quite approved of it.

When Liam arrived, Gerry was with him, a quiet, sun-tanned lad with wild dark hair and beard, as though he'd been marooned by Captain Flint on this island they were headed for, who bowed over Angela's hand with a sweeping flourish and a loud, "My lady!" that Pentecost couldn't help but bite his lip at, though neither of the Hansens seemed to find it particularly odd.

He turned out to be one of the infamous surfer friends -- but if one of the thoughtless pot smokers, it wasn't apparent and nothing further was said of **that** misadventure, though Angela did inspect the interior of the wagon and its seat-belt status closely while they were waiting for the girls to arrive.

Once they'd made it down and parked their weatherbeaten, not-quite-old-enough-for-antique pickup truck in the Hansen's driveway, and all six surfboards were secured on both wagons with complicated systems of jury-rigged wooden blocks and bungee cords and yes, gaffer tape at several points -- there were of course special surfboard racks sold for the purpose, but **why?** seemed to be the collective view -- there was some vigorous discussion of who was going to ride where.

It was first debated whether they ought divide along, or across, couples.

"But we see each other all the time, so one trip doesn't really matter!" was the consensus -- Pentecost didn't understand why this was such a huge issue, it was just a short trip after all, and everyone of them was friends, but it seemed to matter quite a lot. (He really didn't understand that the unspoken argument was over who was going to ride with **_him.)_**

Then lifeboat rules -- men in one, women and child in the other -- was proposed, but that was scotched when Herc went on to say, perfectly seriously (seeming), that this way the "lads' car" could talk about manly things, like football, and beer!

"Football," Angela frowned, "is that what **we** call soccer, or the one without any rules?"

"I played football in school," Liam said in a hollow voice. "They called me 'Own Goal'."

"I was goalkeeper!" Phuong exclaimed brightly.

or--

"Alphabetical?" Pentecost suggested as a joke, and they went with that.

 ** _Oh well, it's only two hours at most..._** They were nice kids, they really were, but -- outside of dungeon crawling, he wasn't sure what to talk about with them, the Christmas party had passed in such a blur of numerical confusion **(and** fun, though he didn't recognize that as part of the confusing element) that he couldn't recall what any of them **did,** aside from Liam being a medic, and they probably didn't **want** to talk about work anyhow...

"Do you think we've got time for another session?" Kim asked as soon as they'd all buckled in, and three pairs of hopeful eyes turned to stare at him.

"A session? In the **car?"**

"I brought all our stuff from last time," Liam explained.

 **"Even _dice?"_** It turned out that the ironical fuzzy dice on the Wavemobile mirror were in fact his dicebag, having been hollowed out and fitted up with Velcro.

"So it's like, **double-irony** , right?"

Pentecost was grateful to have the mystery of all the extra members of their party solved for him, but he put his foot down, pointing out that an hour wasn't long enough, it wasn't fair to the others (and no, trying to conduct a game over speakerphone between two moving vehicles was a **very** bad idea, when two of the participants were also drivers) and the final word on the matter, what if they lost the dice down the floorboards?

Because **he** certainly wasn't going to take part in another spelunking expedition, which shut Liam up in redfaced chagrin, elicited the Nguyens' curiosity, and ended up with Pentecost recounting the airport journey in such a way that nobody came off worse than himself, what with the need for an emergency replacement egg box -- and that led to a discussion of what monsters small children were, in which he found himself in the odd position of arguing that Chuck wasn't **that** bad, you just had to be on the alert with toddlers all the time, and they could hardly help it any more than puppies or kittens, really.

(It turned out that everyone in the gaming group had their own stories of famous toothmarks, the ones that had drawn blood and the ones that had only left bruises -- which **had** added a certain something to playing adventurers fighting vicious creatures -- but ended up in all of them refusing to continue unless Chuck was confined to another room or asleep when they arrived.)

And by the time they reached the ferry terminal, he now knew that Liam and Gerry had been mates at school, which friendship had continued now that they were adults and Gerry a schoolteacher, which was where Kim came into the picture, being another teacher at the same school, and when Liam had heard that his new co-worker and her then-boyfriend were looking to move out of their flat to a proper house, **he** mentioned it to Gerry who mentioned it to **his** girlfriend, whose own parents were looking to sell theirs and retire to an apartment complex where somebody else took care of the upkeep, which was how he was now staying in the Nguyens' old home -- which explained why they knew where everything was, and treated it like their own!

 ** _This is how it goes for normal people who don't move all the time when they're kids, and don't have fathers who insist on bringing their wars home with them,_** he thought sadly, **_all these connections get forged that mean nothing to lawmakers in Parliament or the tastemakers in office towers, and that's why they're always taken by surprise when people don't act 'rationally' by their standards!_**

Because he could very easily see, if things were just a little different, these kids throwing petrol bombs together, or worse, in Belfast or Basra or anywhere, any "hotspot" on the radar of MI6 and CIA past or present.

"Sorry, we're **boring** you, aren't we?" Phuong asked, and he hastened to reassure them that no, honestly, they **weren't** , he was just thinking about how complicated life was these days, which was safe since everyone had their own opinions on that subject, and then it was time to deal with boarding, and Liam at least was only too happy to let him take care of the fees (or, possibly, too overawed to argue about it) and everything got hectic for a long stretch and then they were on the boat and the ride was its own chaos and excitement and making sure that the youngest Hansen didn't fling himself overboard.

And then there was navigating the small streets of the small town of Dunwich, the short drive to Point Lookout, and all the attendant disorder of taking possession of the rental and he didn't have time to brood on politics -- though even here, one couldn't escape it, as the island for all its idyllic externals, turned out to be strife-ridden with local disputes going back generations, centuries even: stolen land rights -- Gerry wasn't related to the local tribes, but the Indigenous side of his family were keenly aware of cases going on all around the country -- quarries and other industrial uses causing environmental damage, European investors running roughshod over local villagers, the lot.

 ** _No, you can't get away from the wars, even on holiday, even on a postage-stamp dot of sand,_** Pentecost sighed inwardly, feeling a pang that he hadn't even realized that Gerry was mixed-race until he said something, and hadn't said anything at all about him being British, let alone part of the same old system either. **_The Empire's always hanging over us, Union Jack or no -- though it IS funny how the Yanks always give THEIR Imperialist bad guys OUR accents, little bit of denial there I'd say..._**

But there was lunch to be passed around from the cool box, and unpacking, and the moving around of vehicles to facilitate that, and then everyone wanted to go down to the beach for a swim, so there was repacking of blankets and sun parasols and towels and whatnot, for the short trip to the shore, and the little car park that overlooked it.

And then -- there was just the ocean, ahead to the north the arc of the other barrier island, and everywhere else -- nothing but water as far as eye could see, with the rougher chop shearing down the outer perimeter to contrast **very** strongly with the sheltered smoothness of the waves inside the shelter of the headland on their left.

After some vigorous discussion, they ended up piling back into the wagons and driving a few hundred metres west to a sand lot where people were parking for easy access to a more sheltered stretch of beach, and Pentecost wondered if this first choice had been another bit of Hansen drama, to make sure that everyone (or at least, their guest who was viewing this for the first time) got the proper impact of the view!

It was a bit of drama he really could have done **without** , he felt, but said nothing.

Having taken care to be the one setting up their little outpost, Pentecost managed to defer all initial questions of why **he** hadn't worn a swimming costume, and when he took possession of the shadiest part of the blanket with his notebook and guidebook, taking it upon himself to watch their things, nobody seemed to take offence -- or even much interest, being far more interested in getting sunscreened up so they could run screaming down to the breakers and start shoving each other under them.

Apparently something about the sea had the effect of reverting even schoolteachers to the mental age of their pupils!

"You're not worried about **sharks?"** he wondered, since it was the South Pacific after all, and you couldn't **be** an aviator and not be aware of sharks as a significant hazard of bailing-out over it.

But all the Australians assured him that the government had long had a very effective anti-shark programme in place, involving nets and underwater cables to protect the beaches, and baits placed to lure any that evaded the nets to uninhabited areas, so there hadn't been any fatalities in their lifetimes, and very few attacks even.

(A year later there **would** be a fatal shark attack, just a few klicks farther along the road, the first such in almost half a century, and Pentecost would shake his head, and send a pointed email to his friends, warning them to **_be careful!!_** on future holidays, and **not** take the status quo for granted just because it was older than they were.)

After a while Angela came to join him, carrying a groggy and cranky Chuck, who needed fresh nappies, a cup of juice -- Pentecost had very much admired the style of it, apparently borrowed from the space program, with its small suction-powered spout and screw-on lid which couldn't be dislodged even by throwing it against the wall with extreme force -- and a nap, in that order.

"Children's propulsion systems seem very unevenly regulated," he remarked, frowning. "They run full tilt, then **stop** completely, then get up and run full speed again -- until they fall over again. I wonder what the science behind it is?"

"Complicated," Angela sighed. "Also? optimally arranged to wear down adult efficiency."

She was wearing a sort of halter-top with a little skirt, a teal number which looked quite retro and yet futuristic at the same time, like something a heroine in would wear in Flash Gordon or some other 1930s science fiction serial, accessorized with fish-bowl helmet and ray-gun.

(This line of thought was less disruptive, emotionally, than reflecting on the fact that his friend's wife was sprawled next to him practically naked, in public, and yet **entirely** socially acceptably dressed, even though her clothing didn't cover any more than undergarments would, and this was not a situation he ever had anticipated **being** in, and so had no idea how he was **supposed** to feel about it. He'd managed to ignore the fact that everyone was thus, on the ride over, and when they were helping carry over and set up the beach umbrella and cool box and all, because **_everyone else_** , and business, but now he couldn't.)

He was painfully aware that it would be both **obvious** , and **rude** , if he simply didn't look at her, like he was some sort of Orthodox monk kidnapped from Mt. Athos, and yet he didn't know how to look at her, without being rude about it, how you did this naturally, and not ogle -- and then she moved to rearrange her son into a more comfortable position where he was snoring in a pose like a discarded doll -- how could human limbs bend that way? It was one thing to know abstractly that bones and joints grew more rigid and brittle over time, and another to witness it! -- and he saw something **else** , without meaning to.

"Herc **never said** your son was delivered by caesarian section," he said, too dismayed to try to pretend he hadn't, and she sat back on her knees and looked at him with a one-sided smile.

"I'd be surprised if he **did** \-- he's **_very_** protective of our privacy," even as Pentecost tried to reconcile it with the endless current of what he'd thought of as gossip and nonsense on that first bus ride together, all about his Californian wife and her family -- and yet, in all that, there hadn't been anything really sensitive, had there? If he had been paying attention, then, he might have been even more suspicious and sooner.

"Besides, it was all rather horrifying and nothing he'd **care** to recall, I'm sure."

"What happened?" Too late, he wondered if this was an inappropriate and monstrous question, but then he'd been spending the days with Paramedic Hansen and her occasional cheerful reports on gruesome work cases, and between that and his father's idea of what constituted proper conversation, his social radar was even more out of calibration than usual.

"Placental abruption. **Fortunately** I recognized what was happening, **fortunately** Herc was **_home_** , and even **_more_ fortunately** I'm a fellow professional so when I told them my symptoms nobody ignored me or messed around."

"I'm afraid I don't **know** what that means."

"It means the place where the umbilical cord attaches to you, detaches before it should. It's like having an internal organ ripped out -- well, that's **exactly** what it is, the placenta is just a temporary, disposable organ -- and you can bleed out from it too fast for anyone to do anything about it, in the worst cases."

"Good God. I had no idea."

"Yeah," she sighed, with a sort of shrug and flinch combined, "the only good part was that he was **almost** ready to come out anyway, just a few weeks early, so he didn't have to spend too much time in the NICU."

 ** _"Oh dear."_** He knew what that meant, at least in general, from colleagues' conversations -- babies weren't supposed to be early at all. "I never would have **guessed** he was premature."

They both contemplated the sleeping topic of discussion with expressions thoughtful and troubled and appreciative all at once.

"No, he made up for lost ground very fast, once they let him come home. But those first few months were **rough** on all of us."

 ** _No kidding,_** Stacker thought with a mixture of frustration at himself, and renewed respect for his friends, that he never would have even imagined the red-haired pilot and his cheerfully bloodthirsty spouse enduring such a near-tragedy and actual protracted agony.

 ** _Is THAT why you're so violent?_** he asked the sleeping toddler, **_did your traumatic birth leave you permanently traumatized, lad?_**

Though he had lately come to alternate theories which seemed more and equally likely, the first one being that the boy was permanently cranky because he was suffering **caffeine withdrawal,** since his mother would have passed it on to him before he was born and then **_not once_** given him tea or coffee in his bottle! -- and the second, that it was a form of **greeting** , like a parrot's grooming nips, and perhaps Chuck represented a new subspecies of human -- both of which had been met with the respect they deserved by his parents!

"So yeah, it goes **_all the way through,"_** Angela said, poking at it and stretching it a bit, as if it weren't part of her, as if it were a patient's she were considering.

"Could you **have** more children?" he asked cautiously, aware that this was **_well_** over the bounds of propriety, but those were probably not even visible with a telescope, between the four of them, any more. **_"If_** you wanted to?"

She shrugged, then sighed deeply.

"That's what they **say** , but...I'm not sure that I **_do."_**

"I don't blame you!" The thought of vital bits of you just **ripping off** inside, without warning--

"Really?" Her mouth crimped, and her glance at him was challenging. "'Cause **a lot** of people **_do."_**

**"Not _Herc!?"_**

"Oh God no, he would **never** \-- no, I just get a lot of judgy attitude...other mothers, mostly, **none of whom** have gone through this themselves." Angela looked up to the heavens -- or the inside of the beach umbrella, rather -- with a snort of exasperation, "That **doesn't** include the ones who tell me I should have 'toughed it out' and not had a c-section just to keep my figure!"

Ironically, perhaps, all this talk of her figure -- not in the ordinary sense of commercialized sexuality but the brutal, gory, medicalized reality of it -- had managed to make him **less** uncomfortable with her exposed physicality in such proximity.

She went on, "But there's the media, and religious leaders, and politicians, who all get their opinion, even though none of them will ever have to worry about having their inner organs turned inside out without anaesthesia -- because it's **always** guys, I tell you, the ones saying in the news are all male for **some bizarre reason! --** and that's how I'm a selfish pig for not wanting to risk it, or, well, **death** , because **_apparently_** we're running out of people on the planet!"

"I don't think it's so much 'people,' exactly," Pentecost said carefully. "If **that** was all they were worried about, they could just look at the numbers and feel better already."

"Yeah, but they can't **_say_** 'Hurry up and have more white babies!' -- not in public, anyway," she smiled, with the kind of smile that was a threat display to anything with half a brain cell in its skull.

"I suppose not." And then, because she was Herc's wife, and the Martins' daughter -- and Phuong and Kim and Gerry's friend -- he added, "Come pretty damn close, sometimes, though," and her smile was still fierce, but also conspiratorially wicked, in answer. "There's an old military saying, **_Nollite Illegitimi--"_**

 ** _"Carborundum,"_** she nodded and then frowned. "Do you think that's where he got the name from?" waving towards the book.

"I'm sure of it."

"Well, I don't intend to let any of them get me down, but you know how it goes." (He did.) "I'd **already** decided I wasn't going to stop wearing a two-piece suit just because I was pregnant -- it doesn't make any **sense** , when you think about it, does it? They **fit** just fine no matter how big you get! -- so it wasn't a huge step to **keep** not stopping, just because I had a scar after."

"That was -- **_courageous."_**

But she only shrugged.

"I'd **like** to say it was a matter of feminist principles, but really? I just went to pick out a new swimsuit, saw the price tags and noooo freaking way," she shook her head emphatically. "A few stares weren't worth **that** many dollars."

"Retcon it," he suggested. "Everybody else **does."**

"Nope, **_I_** had to read _1984_ in school, I know where **that** goes!"

A few minutes passed, and she said, "You're fidgeting with your hands again. **Are** you freaked by my scar, really? **_Or --_** are you trying to decide to ask whether we packed the spare swim trunks anyway?"

Pentecost sighed.

"Which bag **did** they end up in?

He endured, and survived, the embarrassment of first the question itself, and then the business, of figuring out where to change -- "You're **not** going to walk all the way back to the restrooms, are you? Stacker, just use a spare blanket, like **everybody** does!"

 ** _Exhibitionists,_** he thought, with a mix of dismay and fatalism, and regretted the entire while that he hadn't been strong enough to watch other people he sort-of-knew and rather liked, as far as he knew them, having obvious fun in the shallow water, without deciding that just having rolled up his cuffs with the intention of wading (once the horseplay had been safely worked out of the younger set's system) was enough for him.

 ** _Don't you dare say anything_** , he thought, ducking out from under the coverlet, but she was busy reading -- the book he'd given Herc, in fact -- and only the fact that she tossed the waterproof (to a degree, so stated in nice legal waffle on the label) sunscreen his way betrayed any attention spared to the world outside.

"Thanks," he said tersely, because **not** to would have been rude, and didn't look up as he applied it hastily so that he could get about fleeing to the safety of the water.

"Your back -- don't forget your back!" Angela scrambled over and grabbed the container, caught his shoulder, started to pass her hand over his spine. He spun, and caught hold of her wrist.

 **"What** are you doing?"

"Helping, so you don't get burned." She sounded like **him** talking to Chuck, then. He shook his head.

 ** _"No._** What **message** are you sending? **I can't read you.** Are you **_flirting_** with me?" He couldn't forget that the initial declaration of his attraction for the Hansens had after all been **_hers,_** and only relayed by Herc, out of chronological order, in that adventure. **_Oh God, Herc, are you offering me your wife in some terrible antiquated guest-right here?_**

 ** _Don't be absurd, his subconscious said helpfully,_** she does everything for herself, **_it's plain to see!_**

She shook her head, just a little, her smile small and satirical, looking so very much like the quick-witted, steel-nerved heroine of some pre-Fifties dark comedy then, enjoying his discomfiture so much!

"It's **not fair** my husband's the only one who got to put his **hands** all over you," she retorted innocently, looking him in the eyes.

"I don't know **what** \--"

"Your martial arts sessions?" Her grin was wicked, or at least impish.

"That -- that's different--"

"I know, **we** should do that too."

"What--" and then he stopped, at a loss for words, only shaking his head.

"Hey. I've taken some judo. I'm not **great** , but I'm not **terrible**. Who do you think Herc spars with, when he's home?" She shook her head. "I **know** we're not playing at you guys' level, but it's **not** like I'm made of glass. I need to stay in shape so I don't wreck my back hauling unconscious drunk rugby players out of mosh pits -- trust me, you **don't** want to know what poor coordination and gravity can do when bodysurfing goes wrong!"

Pentecost struggled with what was wrong -- **_all KINDS of wrong!_** said his subconscious and conscious, in complete agreement then -- with the idea of sparring, even carefully, with Angela Hansen -- Angela Hansen, who regularly had her arms up to the elbows in other people's insides holding them together, and could talk with dispassion about her **own** insides not staying that way, and who was **still** little and pretty and--

Herc knelt down in the shade next to them.

"What's wrong?"

"Stacker's freaking out about c-sections," she said, which wasn't true, but he was grateful to her Roguish tendencies then, very much -- even if it did send a shadow, like a quick-moving cloud, over her husband's face. (But seeing his friend bend over and kiss his sleeping son, the next second, made it all worth it.)

"No, you just startled me -- your hands were cold, putting the sunscreen on my back. Would you mind finishing?" And he bent his head in a gracious not-quite-bow, and waited -- and Herc said, "Oh, good idea, you c'n do me now," and so he found himself yes, putting his hands all over her husband's body, while Angela finished caring for him, without even a T-shirt between them this time, and refused to look around to see if she was laughing at them.

And admitted, finally, that they were his friends, and they were as beautiful as any marble bodies he'd seen carved in the Capitoline or the Louvre, when artists didn't think that **_idealization_** meant erasing all the softness and give and irregularity of human flesh, and it was all right to think so, and not be ashamed--

And so he walked out, in borrowed clothing, not caring who saw or didn't saw or what they thought, and waded out to where Kim and Gerry were having some sort of splashing contest, and thought what the hell, and started harrying both of them impartially, at which point they left off their rivalry and reformed alliance, and it all got better from there.

Eventually they got tired (of laughing, mostly) and just beachcombed for a bit, and Angela joined them, leaving Herc to look after their encampment.

The sisters were forming a human pyramid, with the two of them supporting Gerry, no matter how unlikely that seemed, and Liam taking their picture, and then going on to strike other heroic or humorous poses, and somehow when Angela splashed her way over through the wavelets to show him a curious shell that she'd found -- there weren't as many as he'd expected, whether because it wasn't the right sort of beach, or because it had **already** been picked over -- but it was a particularly fine shade of purple, and she told him to keep it as a memento, so he put it in the pocket of the board shorts --

And then the Nguyens were swing-dancing, or something within shouting distance of the same, with the two boys (he would **always** think of them as boys, even though they weren't all **that** much younger than Angela, who was only a couple of years younger than Herc, who was only a couple of years younger than he himself, because they just didn't seem to have the same weight of care upon them -- which wasn't entirely fair, but that was their choice not to burden him with their lives, either) and Angela said something about hearing that he was an **excellent** dancer, in a leading tone.

Somehow, instead of being embarrassed or turning away in discomfort or anything, he said instead, "It's a **_trick_** \-- I know a **few** dances, very well, and I'm good at keeping tempo in my head."

And when she asked, "Is the **tango** one of them?" he answered, "A very old form of it, yes," and held out his hand, and when she took it, and started humming a tune of that type from one of her other CDs that he'd written down to purchase when he got back from holiday, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lead her in it through the calf-deep water.

Only when he had brought her back up from that long supported fall, her ponytail soaked, did he realize that to dance such a dance, with another man's wife -- nearly naked or not, white or not -- without having thought to run it past him for the okay first --

He couldn't help look up, and over then, not with guilt but with anxiousness -- only to see Herc sitting there with his chin on one knee, smiling, as he raised his hand to wave at them.

**_Honi soit, yeah--_ **

And Stacker Pentecost blinked away salt water, which might have splashed up in all their twirling about, but hadn't, as Angela swung off laughing to do a series of deer-like leaps through the shallows that might not have been good enough for a professional ballet company but certainly looked fine to everybody else, and the sun slowly sank towards the landmass of Australia on their lee.

That night they warmed up a large pot of lemongrass chicken that the girls had brought from their parents' house, drank cheap local wine and better local beer and sat on the deck of the beach house and prevented Chuck from flinging himself off of it. (They tried to start a new session, but the only table at the beach house was too low to properly guard, and the baby kept almost eating the dice, so they had to give that up while he was awake.)

Gerry had brought his guitar, as well as the marshmallows, and eventually Liam sang an old Irish-or-possibly-Scots drinking song of his own, even more wistful and melancholy and at odds-with-the-words in its melody than "The Parting Glass," though at least as old in its origins:

_Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme!_   
_Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine!_   
_Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain,_   
_For we may and might never all meet here again--_

But for all the sadness that **he** heard in the words, it didn't stop the others from being **_silly_** , Herc scooping Angela up on his knee at the next verse, Kim clasping her hands over her heart as Gerry sighed and made sheep's-eyes in her direction--

_So here's a health to the company, and one to my lass!_   
_Let us drink and be merry, all out of one glass!_   
_Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain,_   
_For we may and might never all meet here again..._

The next morning they went to see the people at the dive shop, who in a way were responsible for the whole endeavour, since it had been here that Angela had come after something had gone wrong with her reservation on the other island where there was an attractive artificial reef and a dolphin cove and lots of other activities -- which meant it was a **much** bigger tourist draw and consequently overbooked -- but still wanting to go scuba diving without travelling very far, she'd ended up at the smaller, less fancy, much more affordable one which **also** had the advantages of beaches with rollers and camp-grounds accessible by paved roads.

Which was where a tired veteran wanting to get away from anything resembling tarmac and engines had come to do a bit of surfing, and ended up at the same stretch at the same time, and what happened after had been not so much the stuff of romantic dramas as absurdist comedy, the way they'd told it, and had shown him the photos of the life-size sand acromantula they'd built that day to prove it.

(It was unclear if they'd managed to convince any tourists that it was a real, dead, native spider, as they claimed, but he supposed it was possible.)

When Phuong suggested that this trip was all just a **ruse** to foist Chuck off on the dive shop owners, as the parties **most** to blame, he thought **that** was a bit much -- but when Angela retorted that no, no, they were just bringing him to the land where he was conceived, that **everyone** should get in touch with their roots, he was mortified beyond speech.

But when Herc started looking puzzled, counting on his fingers, and saying that he'd been an **awfully _small_** baby, for eleven months? -- he felt something different, indescribable combination of awe and pity and frustration with the universe, that they were able to joke about the whole surreal and sometimes terrifying set of circumstances, that they could **laugh** over everyone assuming that their hasty engagement had been due to her unplanned pregnancy rather than his fear of being sent back to war in superannuated aircraft to curry favour with Washington, and leaving her a widow-without-a-pension -- let **alone** what Angela had told him about, yesterday!

**_How did I come to deserve people like this in my life?_ **

And when they met the dive instructors, who dutifully admired Chuck, compared his dentition to that of various aquatic species they were all familiar with, and offered a discount to the group, when discussions of logistics came up, he simply cut them all short by volunteering to mind Chuck tomorrow, so that anyone who wanted to could go diving, and anyone who didn't, could do otherwise as they pleased.

So that was fine, and settled, and they could go and spend the afternoon as planned with no feelings of guilt or regrets, and no disruption to the dive people's schedule today, either.

He'd thought to just swim by them, but apparently you couldn't do that safely, in the same space where people were also surfing, for the same reason you couldn't have small aircraft flying willy-nilly across a commercial airport's runways (it made perfect sense, in hindsight) and none of them were willing to let him spend the entire time on the shore, as the designated child-minder, because that simply wasn't fair.

They **really did** want him to join them, on a little boat made out of nothing, a **joke** of a vessel, one small slab with a token gesture to the concept of a rudder, with no way to steer it or power it but your own main strength, out in deep water with strong currents!

"No, it's okay, really," he said, only now realizing that by trying to sound perfectly reasonable about it, he'd failed to convince them that he really, **really** , **_REALLY_** would prefer to stay on shore, over trying to do what the others were doing so easily.

And then Herc blinked, and tilted his head a little, and Pentecost only had a split-second to realize that he'd been made, again, before he went and said it.

"Are you--" he began, and stopped, and started, "You're not--" and broke off again, biting his lip, because they both knew damn well what the question was, **and** the answer, and Herc had too much of kindness and courtesy to state the obvious, and yet he couldn't in kindness or courtesy pretend he **hadn't** noticed, either.

"It's the **same one** we were at, at Topanga," he said with a gentle, earnest, encouraging smile -- but it **_wasn't_** , there the land was tamed, the sea less omnipresent than it was here, on this low spit with no high ground at all to speak of, far from the city and no big islands to provide the eye an anchor, just them at the edge of the land, and nothing else anywhere...

"It's just so **_wide._** Too far to **any** harbour." He tried to sound casual, but knew he failed, and didn't really care.

Herc just looked at him, not judging, not mocking, his eyes frighteningly like windows showing blue distance, pupils irised small in the sunlight, portals to a world where there was nothing but sky and sea.

He rested his hand on Pentecost's arm.

"We **won't** let you get swept away. Promise."

And they didn't, and he **did** enjoy himself though it was terrifying -- trusting Herc, if not the prudence fully of his younger fellow surfers -- and if he would never be even adequate, beyond being able to stand up, and fall off more or less safely (as Luna had told him, back when they'd sent her to that posh boarding school, being able to fall off safely was **the** most important part of riding a horse!) it didn't matter at all.

He could admire them, all of them, standing and steering their boards like circus riders, and do it without the sort of corrosive envy that so easily follows skill, and not begrudge them their fun (though it was hard not to begrudge them the lives before it, that had let them acquire such skills, and such security, in so many things.)

And knowing that both Hansens were giving up a lot of their own opportunity, missing waves to stay with him, and make sure he was safe, and show him what to do (and more crucially, not) and stay at the level of his inexperience, he felt -- strangely -- not guilty, but only very tenderly towards them, for it all.

But later that evening he was looking out to the horizon, thinking about the history of this particular corner of the Pacific, the Battle of the Coral Sea and the longer struggle to traverse such an expanse with the mails, which they took for granted nowadays (but still, planes fell out of the sky!) and his friend noticed, and asked, "You're all **quiet** again. What's wrong?"

"Wind, sand, stars -- we've got all **three** , tonight...and how many **wings** lie under that water? The ocean's an aviators' graveyard."

"You **think** about it, huh." Herc's eyes were intent, on his own, though he raised his brows in that quizzical way of his. "I -- try **not** to." He looked up at the night sky. "You c'n only do so much, y'know -- hold steady, keep your course as best you can, an' **not** worry about what you can't **control** , 'cos it don't do any good."

 ** _And that's the difference between us_** , he thought, wistful that people could be so close, have so much in common, and yet still be so distant on such fundamental levels -- **_You can turn your back on the Laws of Thermodynamics, and Murphy, and Sod, and I -- can't._**

But there was a game being set up on the beach house table, calling his name, and in the morning there was more sun, and rambles through the rainforest that somehow clung on top of this little spit of sand, in spite of every scientific likelihood, and it really wasn't possible to be melancholy, or even to worry much about the tiny place of humanity in the vast scale of the universe, when you were trying to keep pace with a toddler who had a sudden burst of energy to spend all at once, racing down a sandy path like a laughing, shouting, juvenile emu!

 ** _"Kookaburra,"_** he told him, when they heard them, and eventually Chuck said **_"KOOBAH!"_** in between imitating them, and bit him jovially on the shoulder, for formality's sake.

And after, when they'd all rendezvoused again, the scuba divers and the surfers and the two ill-assorted hikers, and feasted again on an assortment of take-away and fry-ups and seafood grilled with tofu, there was more singing and silliness and nobody seemed to notice -- or minded, at least, when he fell quiet, nor made him feel not part of the group, regardless.

And then, too soon, they were on the ferry with the vast sweep of Moreton Bay with Brisbane "and environs" ringing it before them, and it was almost the fortnight's end.

Before he left, the Hansens carried out their threat, or promise, to take him to karaoke -- in vain did he protest that **he** could be the babysitter, and save them money while they enjoyed themselves -- probably because he didn't really mean it, deep down, though it **was** fully as traumatic as he anticipated, because it **wasn't** The First Circle, because now he had **two** people he cared for singing songs he didn't know or understand in a strange setting, and because, as he knew **would happen** , Herc got him committed to singing "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" this time.

But **he** sang it with him, so it was all right -- it was better than all right, it was **_fun_** , and everybody there seemed to enjoy it, and maybe he ought to check out this Giants group, if they were doing covers like that...

(The emails he would send the Hansens over subsequent years, expounding on the possible meanings of the **_blue canary_** would range from complex cryptographic systems to esoteric metaphysical systems involving the Rosicrucians, nor would the sender ever give a hint as to whether or not these were elaborate leg-pulls, or completely as serious and even obsessive attempts to decode them, so revenge was had in full measure.)

And two weeks were up and he was back on the plane to dreary normality -- he'd made them say their goodbyes at the house, and Liam take him and his things in the Wavemobile, because he knew what an imposition it would be, with their work schedules and the baby and all -- but even more because he was afraid that he wouldn't be **able** to leave, would tear up his ticket and stay there, give it all up like the fantasy they'd spun one night sitting up late, that all three of them would head off to the bush to start their own air service, the two of them as pilots, Herc's best mates from his squadron as mechanics, and Angela running dispatch for them.

(Every year thereafter they joke about doing that, elaborating on the plan, dreaming up names and even logos for their imaginary company, but they never do.)

"You did have a good time, right?" Herc asked him, yet again, as they slowly all separated at the edge of the drive, trying to keep Chuck from lunging across the gap and biting him, with more success than he was at trying not to tear up.

"Listen, If it wasn't for you guys, I would've kept on thinking of Australia as **nothing** but **kangaroos** and **_poison snakes--"_** (Because nobody, in this day and age, would even seriously **think** , far less say aloud, that they had enlarged their dominion to contain it, to cherish and protect and to mourn, not in the abstract but in the taste of the air and the feel of its dust...)

Angela slapped her forehead hard.

 **"That's** what we forgot to show you! You never **did** see any poisonous creatures! Herc, we **_can't forget_** , next time he comes!"

"Too right! Stacker, I'll put it on the checklist -- if **you** promise to remind me!" and they finally managed a final round of hugs, waves, parting bites and shouted goodbyes -- and then Liam surprised him at the International terminal by offering him a hearty, back-thumping hug, and telling him he "did really good," for a first-timer, that he'd really enjoyed meeting him (neither of them mentioning the seat-belt fiasco, it being silently agreed that that hadn't counted as a proper meeting) and hoped he'd come back for another visit soon.

And when he landed at Changi, there was a text, and a last last-minute picture, taken of all of them by Herc trying to juggle child and phone, so blurry and lopsided and he couldn't tell how much of that the original, and how much his vision...

It will be another year and a different leave, before he admits to the Australian that he had entertained an even more far-fetched suspicion, if not entirely seriously, than him being a spy -- and only after Hansen brought it up, by mentioning how he'd thought it was honestly possible he was a **time traveller,** like the bloke on that new show, just for a moment or so -- but though they both laugh uproariously at their own selves' foolishness, both men also feel sure that there was something not fated, but **fateful** , in their meeting, though they cannot say how or what.

(Herc Hansen would never speak of his own deepest, most improbable worries, not before it was too late, and there was no point anyhow.)


	5. SD-HK

Many, many years later, Chief Mechanic Li -- who had once been a Flight Sergeant in Australia, and followed his Flight Lieutenant into a different service, when they no longer had a home base to return to -- would go looking for him again, **not** where he was supposed to be, asleep at last, because he knew him too well for that.

Instead he found him where he first went seeking him, sitting by the tall window overlooking the water, his dog at his feet, his head resting on his updrawn knees as he watched the smouldering city under the blazing sunset, its darkened swathes like rifts in a galaxy where the stars had fallen in.

"Sir," he said, glad that old habits died hard and grew back easy, no matter how the other'd always felt about being addressed that way by one older than he (no matter by how few years!) because **someone** needed to be sure to do it, just as someone needed to make sure he was looked-after. " **There** you are," and the words, like his tone, were a reproach.

Herc Hansen looked up, not having heard the door nor his old sergeant's approach, and blinked, and tried to smile at him as he knelt down beside them, Max lifting his head with a friendly whine.

"Jun," he said, in a small voice, in a greeting that was bare acknowledgement, neither welcome nor repulse. **_Here we both are,_** it said, and no more.

Something silvery gleamed in the fading light, as his lost Jaeger's senior crewman held it out between them.

"Marshal Pentecost asked us to see that you got this, if he didn't make it back."

Silently he untucked his good hand from around his waist and held it up, as though it were some inanimate object, so that the pillbox could be placed in his palm.

"Thanks," he whispered, and took a breath as if to say something else, but didn't. Instead he sat as if frozen, staring at the metal without moving, as though it were unstable explosive that might go off at the least disturbance.

"Do you--" and then Li frowned and started fresh, "I'm going to **bring** you some tea, Marshal," being ruthless about it, in spite of Hansen's flinch. " **Don't** go sneaking off anywhere else. Sir."

He blinked, or winced again, at that, and nodded ever so slightly, and stayed where he was, without moving, for several minutes after the older man had left.

 ** _Why would you leave me this?_** Herc asked the silence, and even breathing hurt, now. He let his arm fall, as he lowered his forehead to his knee again -- and the noise was wrong, it made the wrong sort of rattle, too deep and too solitary for tablets.

Awkwardly, and with a growing dread, he pried it open.

Inside there was a little music player, of a style that hadn't been made for many, many years itself, one of the most basic sort that didn't hold much at all, together with a pair of headphones, and a folded piece of paper.

The paper had a "1" marked on it, and the audio device had a label on it with "2", and he thought it was a good thing they'd been numbered, or he'd have sat there forever trying to decide which to open first...

The note was briefer than he'd hoped, longer than he'd feared, and no easier to read, for either of those facts.

**Herc,**

**You'll see that the date of the attached files goes back to the start of things, when we weren't yet sure how dangerous the Drift would be, let alone that this would even work at all.**

**I still mean them, as much as when I recorded them. I've rewritten this, every time I rode out on a mission, to keep up with the times. But those, those have not changed.**

**I'd ask you to take care of everyone for me, for as long as possible -- writing this in the hope that we've succeeded, yet knowing we may well have failed.**

It must have been dashed off in those few minutes between the last alarm sounding, and his own arrival with the summoned armour--

**But I won't, because that would be an insult unworthy of our friendship, to doubt that you will, without being asked. **

**Instead, I give you one last order. No, forgive me -- two.**

**First, do not blame yourself. At least, no more than you blame me. **

The last phrase was underlined several times.

**I could have refused to allow you to enlist, after Scissure. I could have told you vengeance wasn't what you needed, and not relented afterwards, either. So forgive me, if you can, and then forgive yourself.**

The last two words were also underlined, repeatedly.

**I didn't pass on this responsibility as punishment, or burden, though God knows it's enough of both! but as all I've left to give you. So, my last command -- let them take care of you.**

**I've many regrets, too many, and not all concerning you and yours, but I have NEVER **

\--and here the pen had gone right through the paper, in the underscore --

**regretted our meeting, at that foolishness in Anaheim, nor accepting your invitation.  Nor your protection.**

**And if the worst has come to pass -- remember that your voice was with us at the last, carrying the daylight world of humanity into the night, for us.**

**In friendship & gratitude,  
Stacker Pentecost**

He'd stamped it with the Corps chops, both the letters and the seal, under it, and the markings sparked a sudden sharper anger and grief at the service that had so completely consumed his friend's soul, so that not even his last message could be free of that burden.

**_Dammit, Stacker! How dare you -- how DARE you DO this to me!?_ **

But he fumbled the earbuds in, found the button blindly and depressed it, bracing himself as for impact, and that was so very much not enough, he caught his breath and couldn't inhale for several seconds after the recording started, hearing that voice again, as he had not thought to hear it but in memory--

_As virtuous men pass mildly away,_   
_And whisper to their souls to go,_   
_Whilst some of their sad friends do say,_   
_"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."_   
  
_So let us melt, and make no noise,_   
_No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move_   
_'Twere profanation of our joys_   
_To tell the laity our love._   
  
_Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;_   
_Men reckon what it did, and meant;_   
_But trepidation of the spheres,_   
_Though greater far, is innocent._   
  
_Dull sublunary lovers' love_   
_—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit_   
_Of absence, 'cause it doth remove_   
_The thing which elemented it._   
  
_But we by a love so much refined,_   
_That ourselves know not what it is,_   
_Inter-assurèd of the mind,_   
_Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss._   
  
_Our two souls therefore, which are one,_   
_Though I must go, endure not yet_   
_A breach, but an expansion,_   
_Like gold to aery thinness beat._   
  
_If they be two, they are two so_   
_As stiff twin compasses are two;_   
_Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show_   
_To move, but doth, if th' other do._   
  
_And though it in the centre sit,_   
_Yet, when the other far doth roam,_   
_It leans, and hearkens after it,_   
_And grows erect, as that comes home._   
  
_Such wilt thou be to me, who must,_   
_Like th' other foot, obliquely run;_   
_Thy firmness makes my circle just,_   
_And makes me end where I begun._

He wasn't quite weeping, when the sound went quiet again, but he was so throttled with the unshed ones that he could not have spoken a word to save his life, then. But that wasn't the only track on the device -- there had been two after all.

When the next picked up he shook his head, lips moving in silent protest, curling in against himself even more -- but he didn't shut it off, only closed his eyes and shook.

_The birds they sang_   
_at the break of day_   
_Start again_   
_I heard them say_   
_Don't dwell on what_   
_has passed away_   
_or what is yet to be._   
_Ah the wars they will_   
_be fought again_   
_The holy dove_   
_She will be caught again_   
_bought and sold_   
_and bought again_   
_the dove is never free._

_Ring the bells that still can ring_   
_Forget your perfect offering_   
_There is a crack in everything_   
_That's how the light gets in--_

And by the time there was silence again he **was** crying, not for any one of them but for all of them, who had all lost each other, over and over again, until now he alone was left of all their old company and number.

He thought about the man he'd met, at that long-ago Angels game, and how **that** man would never have entrusted something so important to him, unsecured, to the hands of colleagues he barely knew, to deliver it **for** him, because it was **his.**

Would never have put **himself** in such a position of dependency, then or a dozen years ago, would never have had the self-assurance or the humility both to put his life and honour and person in the hands of others, **let alone** his mind, as one must to pilot a Jaeger--

**_He changed so much, between then and K-Day -- in some ways. In other ways...not at ALL--_ **

But he looked back over those many years, and knew in the depths of his bones that if **he** had not made that choice, to swear fealty to Stacker Pentecost on a dusty California street corner, without ever a word of an oath spoken between them, that the whole of the war would have gone differently -- **if** it had been a war at all, and **not** a matter of self-destruction as fast or faster than the enemy could inflict it.

**_"The whole, silly, drunken, pathetic lot of us..."_ **

**_We would've done it, we really would -- we did damn near enough of it, before Stacker pulled us out of that nosedive! Humanity giving up to lie down and die on the beaches, poisoning ourselves before the enemy could get to us all -- but HE put a stop to it!_ **

He'd resigned himself to defeat, back then, Hansen understood now -- his chilly demeanour and apparent unconcern with **anything** , insult or flattery or career advancement, had been the result of jadedness and a despair at the state of the world and the nature of humanity, something sadder than cynicism, but bitterer than melancholy--

Not like he hadn't had good reason for it -- the inside vantage on world political affairs wasn't anything to cheer the heart of anyone but a satire writer, but that wasn't the whole of the human race, any more than a takeaway shop was, but the second was much more real than the first, and it had fallen to **him** to show the other man that, somehow--

But that hadn't been the only thing he'd shown him, those days in California. And he sighed, shifting his aching bones, trying not to disturb the sleeping dog on his feet. He'd shown himself a rash, well-meaning, blundering fool, only wise enough to realize that he'd run them into a proper lose-lose scenario, in his unthinking fervour, and Pentecost had saved them **both** from the consequences...

At least, from the **obvious** consequences. Because the true consequences -- the consequence of showing him that there was at least one person alive who would do what he said, without question, without defiance, without pride, because from respect -- **those** had just run their course at last today...

**_Gave him the taste for power that night -- first hit's always free!_ **

It didn't matter that he'd chosen to exercise it so **lightly** , to wield it without cruelty, or even force if possible, to **woo** and to **lead** , rather than compel and drive -- though he could both, when the times called for it -- that didn't change the fact that he'd discovered both the aptitude, **and** the desire, that night at The First Circle.

**_'World domination,' he said, and I thought it was a joke..._ **

He shook his head at his own naivete.

 ** _But I can't claim that credit -- someone else would have, if not me -- Luna, or Jiachen, or Eiji-sama, or Terry, or someone, surely ONE of them would've shaken him out of himself, before it was too late,_** he felt sure.

**_But it WAS me that did it, and isn't that a hell of a thing to know? To be the fool he tripped over and took pity on, carried to safety and made a place in his heart for, and all of that aiming us both at THIS finish!_ **

Oh, how wickedly clever of Stacker, to tell him not to blame himself more than each other -- knew them too well, both of them, because otherwise there would be **no limit** to the blame he could heap on his own head--

**_I didn't bring the Kaiju on us._ **

To remember that was to remember all, but still --

But who **could** have foreseen this?

And the worst of it was, he hadn't had doubts before, until that letter -- no, that wasn't true, but he'd been able to seal them away like the dangerous radiation they were, entomb them behind a wall as solid as the concrete shells they'd place in the harbour to enclose their fallen defenders, as soon as the city could manage --

Now his shields were gone, and all the fears he had ever resisted, all the ugly insinuations -- or outright accusations -- that his son, and his brother speaking through him, had ever made, came at him full force.

That Stacker had only ever **used** him, that he'd been nothing more than a tool, a fool, a naive and gullible idiot believing that a man like Marshal Pentecost with all his power and ambition **_(What ambition?_** his heart protested) would have seen anything in him but useful blind devotion--

Or maybe yes, **pity** , for that pathetic devotion, enough to call him 'friend' though it **meant** 'servant,' dogsbody, 'valued member of our organization' --

**_No, no, no, it was NEVER that way--_**

But that was the problem, you could remember every hour, every word, and **still** never know if it was **_the same_** for you, as for someone else--

**_He came for us, searched us out of all the refugee centres, didn't stop until he'd found us and brought us home--_ **

Max sat up, moments before Striker Eureka's Chief Mechanic returned with a small steel thermos and a packet of real ANZAC Biscuits, brought from home. Too worn out to even feel ashamed, Herc waited while Jun unscrewed the tea and poured it out, tore open the wrapper, placed the thermos cap in his good hand, the oatmeal-coconut cookies on the floor of the little dais by his knee -- and with a sad smile and shake of his head, broke one small piece off one and gave it the dog.

"Any changes I should know about? Have Mako and Raleigh woken up?

 **"They** won't be conscious before tomorrow afternoon," Jun shook his head, as though he should have realized that already, with a strongly implied, **_And neither should you!_** "Things are holding, ashore, no significant changes for now -- and LOCCENT's telling all foreign governments they can verify the Breach is closed for themselves, but a full report will be issued in due time."

The new Marshal laughed, one short bitter chuckle.

"What's **that** time gonna be? No Jaegers, no money, no pilots, no purpose -- and **me**. The Corp's got **_nothing_** , might as well tell everyone to turn out the lights and go home, eh?"

Jun Li, who had seen his lieutenant prostrate with grief and exhaustion when they'd lost their hometown and their base and their loved ones (so really, this was him doing very well), only shook his head.

 ** _"Sir._** You were in a battle two days ago, another battle last night, you got bashed up and your arm broken, and, ah -- well, would **you** let yourself go up in your state, if it was up to you?"

There wasn't any real answer to that.

"So if you **wouldn't** let yourself take the yoke of a plane, **ought** you be making any important decisions, about **anything** , right now?"

Shamefaced, he shook his head.

"Miss Mori's going to **need** you, when she wakes up. So will young Becket."

"People need me **now** , and I'm a goddamn useless--"

Li sighed.

"Hercules Hansen, **how long** have we known each other? **Too** bloody long for you to try this on me, wouldn't you say?" And that made the younger man laugh, just a faint chuckle. "You **finish** your tea, eat your biscuits--"

Max sat up again at the word, looking around hopefully.

"--and **then** get yourself some sleep, Sir. Other people can carry on for now, who **didn't** fight three Kaiju in three days, lose their best friend and their co-pilot in the same one, and **don't** have broken bones."

Flight Sergeant Li had always been good at laying out their options, even when said options were terrible ones, like "Pull **this** bit off that **other** one and try to **make** it fit, since they stopped making those parts years ago and Canberra doesn't think refuellers are sexy enough to buy us **new** ones," and having regular upgrades since the War began hadn't lost him his touch.

"Okay, Jun."

"You going to bed? In your **cabin** , I mean?"

Herc shook his head.

"What I figured. I'll grab you some doonas -- **will** you be able to go to sleep, you think?"

The new Marshal shrugged, then winced, because he kept forgetting that was a bad idea.

"Wonder if there's some sedative I can take with these pills they gave me for my arm? I didn't even **think** to ask."

"There is." His former sergeant was so matter of fact in his reply that Hansen looked down at the thermos, and the cup in his left hand.

"Is it in here?"

"Not yet. Do you **want** it?" The combination of practicality, kindness, and respect for his choices made his eyes fill again.

"I'd better." He held up the tea for the dose, knowing it would take some time to kick in, with his mass, even working with the painkillers he already had taken.

Drinking it slowly, the liquid warmth helping him to get a few bites of biscuit past his lack of appetite and aching throat, he sat and leaned against the other man's shoulder as he had when they'd finally been reunited in the bad early days of the War, after Pentecost had tracked down and picked up all their surviving squadron members, while he was still nearly catatonic with bereavement.

And here they were again...

"He did well, Jun," he managed, after a little while, because he knew how Striker's crew had clashed with his son over so **many** stupid little things, and how his Chief Mechanic had disapproved of Chuck's ways towards them all but **particularly** towards his father, and of **his** lenient ways towards Chuck in turn, and it was important that they know that that hadn't been everything there was, at the end, before whatever happened next here, happened--

"I know," ex-Flight Sergeant Li replied, very kindly. "They did very well. We're all **very** proud of them," and he patted his back gently, careful of his shoulder, and that made him choke again, fighting back a sob as the older Corpsman went to find those quilts for him.

Because the truth was that he would **rather** have his son alive and angry at him for being what he was, than a dead hero -- but thinking of him as Jaeger pilot **first** forced him to think of his **other** co-pilot-- and **that** comparison, between Scott rotting away in prison without ever yet having shown the glimmer of a clue as to why he deserved to be there, and Chuck's fate, to go not **quietly** but in flame that shook the world's foundations, one great roaring defiance at the greatest living foes ever to enter Earth's atmosphere, by the side of the finest man he'd ever known--

 ** _It should have been me --_** and **that** was the core of it, of his anger, at **both** of them really -- Stacker for taking his place, and his fate, and his son -- and his **son** , for taking the place that should **always** have been his, shieldman at the last as he had been from their first meeting, the unspoken thought that had been there, and died a-borning as soon as it became more than theoretical -- that their boys would click, and between them they could save the both of them, and spare Mako from ever having to risk her life in a Jaeger...

**_That was our fatal mistake -- one of, at least! -- WE never saw it to be feared, to avoid... kids know the big lie, do as we say -- think as we say--NOT as we do--and none of US would ever give up OUR wings--!_ **

With that realization his anger burned out, leaving only cold exhausted ashes, at least for the moment.

It wasn't that he wished he'd never met him -- would it have **stopped** the Kaiju, if he hadn't been part of the Resistance before it had a name? Would it have been any **less** terrible, if he **hadn't** known that anyone was even **_trying_** to stop them? To be as ignorant as all the other victims of that first year -- instead of frantic with anguish that they hadn't been able to mobilize quickly enough, that so much time had been wasted in pointless delays?

No matter how tempting that last, he **knew** it wouldn't really, no more than it had been better for the people who'd trusted in the Wall -- oh, they'd **_hoped_** , they'd tried so hard to get the Breach sealed before further Incursions, but they hadn't had a chance, not with so much working against them--

And to say that what he **really** wished was for it all to remain as it **_had_** , before the War ever began, continuing on the normal trajectory of work and life and tragedies that might come singly to interrupt it instead, for him and Stacker and all of them--

 **That** was only **_halfway_** true, because he never would have gotten the chance to pilot a Jaeger, the years of glory that had nothing to do with being feted by the media or hailed as a hero, but only that amazing and indescribable thing itself, for which he'd sold his soul and traded love and even loyalty, without a qualm -- at least, not enough of them to hold him back...

And Stacker had **forgiven** him, all of it, or never blamed him for it in the first place, understanding the draw that was better than flight, of which even the triumph of saving lives was the lesser part, compared to being part of something so much greater than **any** single mind or body...

**_I just want it not to HURT--_ **

If there was some sequence of actions that could have led to a sequence of events that didn't involve everybody he'd ever loved dying before him -- or worse -- that didn't **also** start out with, "There never was a Breach that opened on planet Earth, or incursions of gigantic monsters through it," it wasn't something he or anybody else was going to be able to game out, because the stakes had been too high, all along, for too many people.

And if there were, how would it be fair? What made **him** so special, that **he** should be spared mourning, when nobody else from one pole to the other had been?

**_Things Just Happen, What The Hell --_ **

He was starting to slip, losing a bit of his balance already, and with a sudden twist of dread thought he'd dropped the messages, his nerves no longer answering reliably.

In a burst of panicked energy he shook the tin open again, put the folded slip back, working the cables of the player in around it -- and froze again, because his fingers had brushed something that he hadn't seen, hadn't noticed when he'd taken out the other two things, because it was the same colour and texture as the box, and secured through its hinge with a twist of wire.

He hadn't even thought about that, he was so drained -- but of course he **couldn't** have worn it into the Conn-Pod, no metal, no jewellery, nothing that would interfere with the circuitry of the drivesuit -- and of course he wouldn't have **forgotten** about it, either.

With more force than needed he shut it down tight, everything in his body resisting calm no matter what chemistry was overriding his will, unrest tearing into all his nerves and the effort against feeling anything, shoved it hard into the closest pocket of his vest and set his attention to unbuckling his boots as best he could, with one hand and a canine helper.

Despite that, he'd managed them both by the time his Chief Mechanic returned with enough blankets and quilts to make a sort of nest around him (Max making of himself a warm immovable pillow), assistance that he would have found embarrassing to be in need of, **if** he could feel anything but pain right now.

When the other man sat down beside him not far away and started working on his tablet, he almost tried to force himself to join him, out of that ingrained dutiful habit that had made him a pilot that people **wanted** to fly with, instead of finding excuses not to, and the same in another sort of pilotry altogether -- but it was no good, he was too far under the influences now, and could only watch sleepily.

 ** _I can't -- I can't -- I can't,_** meaning nothing in particular and everything.

Jun got up again, going over to call up the central system from the corner workstation and fossick at the larger screen for a bit, pulling up notes from multiple sources, and he wanted to protest, **_No, that's HIS terminal,_** but he couldn't get it past the ice in his throat that locked his teeth together against the chill, and had to fight for a breath, feeling the hard metal edges digging into his ribs through canvas and knitted cotton, as though his heart had been taken out and replaced with an airlock instead.

 ** _I need to back them up,_** the thought of losing those last echoes worse than any anger at his Marshal for burdening him with them, and then the artificially-induced calm gave a clarity, like a sudden lull in a gale letting one manoeuvre the embattled aircraft to a safer altitude. **_Of course there are backups already, he'd never risk losing the only copy -- and where they are, there'll be messages for the others--_**

Even if he could have moved, he was in no state to type, or even to think about navigating file systems, but he needed to remember, couldn't let this get lost -- he called to Jun, since he couldn't even manage sending himself a text, now.

"What was that? Herc? **Did** you say something?"

"Remind me 'bout data backups...t'morrow," he said muzzily.

"Right," and the former sergeant set up an autosend to his Marshal's inbox in the morning, that read **BACKUP AUDIO FILES** because **_he_** hadn't been born yesterday, either, and returned to coordinating lists with his fellow crew chiefs and their counterparts in other divisions around the 'Dome, in accordance with the other man's last request before leaving LOCCENT for Medical, to contact the city authorities and see what help they could offer--

The PPDC's wounded leader **should** have been able to relax then, having accomplished all that was currently within his power and delegated what wasn't -- but the one thing he couldn't let go of, worrying at him like a red light on the board that just wouldn't go away no matter how many resets were thrown, was his combined worry over whether there would be **another** message for him, and what it would say if there was.

**_Couldn't you have just SAID 'I love you' --? WAS that so bloody hard, even at the end? Did you think I'd be HAPPY with a bunch of fucking metaphors about earthquakes and outer space and compasses --_ **

Because yes, he was too damn tired to parse literature now, but if there was one thing he recalled from school it was how anything could be twisted about to mean its opposite, or something else completely, if you wrapped enough symbols around it--

Stupid, because compasses could mean either geometry **or** the kind you took on the road for when GPS wasn't reliable, and--

If he'd been able to move at all, his eyes would have snapped open then.

**_Oh._ **

**_Right._ **

That was the hack, right there, the compass was **always** a navigation tool, even when it was the maths one -- he flashed an image from old films, hands turning the points across a paper map, marking the distance along a coast -- and **what** had he called him, that first meeting? His control tower, bringing him in safely from the storm--

That reference to Anaheim hadn't been either careless, or **a** manipulative bit of sentimental appeal, it had been a **reminder**.

 ** _Damn sneaky bastard,_** but there was a warmth in the thought though he was too far under to even smile now, ' ** _must obliquely run,' yeah--_**

(It didn't occur to him, as it never has, what it says that Stacker Pentecost would **know** , not even assume, that he'd follow this line through the maze, work out the clew with one arm tied and his body and soul shattered alike.)

They'd **always** been shoulder-to-shoulder, not lordly master with Sancho Panza trailing after (unless there was some alternate version of the story where the Don and his servant fell in love and ran an orphanage together while they fought the giants that everyone else thought were windmills -- and there probably **was** at that, and it was probably somewhere on the backups down in storage from the Academy servers in all the student projects, and the authors if they were still alive somewhere around the 'Dome or downtown right now...)

He was equal parts certain that there would be a message there for him alone, something too deeply personal for an open channel, and that now he didn't **need** it -- because yes, it was **_exactly_** like him to encrypt "I love you" in an old poem about celestial navigation that just **happened** to be full of accidental references to **_their_** War, complete with a wicked little joke that was only dirty if you thought everything was...to tell him he'd known all along, **seen** it even before he himself had, and loved him back from the first, in his own complex inimitable way?

For what **else** did those words mean, if not to say **_We were ALWAYS together_** \-- not just the cold impersonal **_You were my inspiration to be a better person_** he'd taken it for at first, which was fine **if** that wasn't the sum of it **_\--_** and finally, **_You were MY fixed point--_**

 ** _Oh, Stacker,_** he sighed inwardly, and the breaths he took no longer hurt like high altitude, the pressure of shaped steel against his ribs, against his pinioned fingertips, no longer a crushing weight of past confusions. **_I love you too,_** he thought, and fell asleep.

He didn't sleep as long as the medicine was supposed to allow, but that was nothing unusual for him; what **was** unusual was accepting his bruises and strains enough to request help, and to let Jun and Tendo help him get up, and showered, and into clothes that only looked much the same as the ones he'd been wearing--

"Geez, man, we've **got** to get you some shirts that don't look like oil rags."

"Good luck with that, we've **tried** before," and he **tried** to explain that it wasn't appropriate to wear nice clothing in times of mourning --and hadn't it been mourning since Yancy Becket was killed? but then he thought that would sound like he was criticizing his operations chief **_-(no, NOT mine, I'm not the right one to be in charge! dammit)_** and so he tried to explain about them being appropriate for being cast off, discarded by the world...

And they just ignored him, kindly, and told him that if he didn't come down for breakfast within the hour they'd send someone to fetch him, when he said there were things he needed to do in his own cabin, first.

There was of course no **reason** he had to use his own room's terminal, but it felt comfortable, it was familiar from all the past times he'd stayed here, all the earlier missions and the moving stages and the times when the end of it all was still uncertain, and that meant he felt less nervous, if only by a little, making his exploration.

It was hard to type one-handed, but he managed to dig down into the areas of the server that he expected he'd have luck, and then to enter in the uninformative names of the two audio files on the player in his pocket -- he wasn't sure if he needed to check them, if he'd remembered them correctly -- but then the search string pinged back, like a float on an angler's line, and he followed it down to that one particular inconspicuous virtual vault of their enormous electronic library.

Oh yeah, there were other files waiting there -- their names simply encrypted with that old rotation code beloved of science fiction readers who wanted to remain unspoilered, you could read it without cyphering if you did it often enough, especially when the words were short and you already **knew** what they were likely to be--

He automatically dug out a fresh pocket drive from his desk and started backing them up onto it, being especially careful, wary of his own clumsiness now, using the basic interface for that reason. (Remembering when there was nothing **but** , remembering when the idea of light-projected virtual keyboards was **itself** just speculation...)

After copying them to safety, he started renaming the originals with standard unrotated spelling, and emailing them to whoever they'd been labelled for. **All** of them were dated six months ago, with a sole exception.

**_He didn't know WHAT was going to happen, if we'd get caught, if someone slipped and the Western powers got wise to us, and they'd put HIM against a wall -- or these days more likely a Bastille with no medical care, wait'll the problem goes away by itself, we knew it was always a chance--_ **

Most of them were just text files, and small. Some were audio, and there were several large zip archives that held imagery, from what he could tell without extracting them.

One of those was one of the two bearing his name, and the other, the text file, was the one file whose time-stamp was more recent -- within an hour of the second Double Incursion, to be precise. He'd forwarded all the others, and the only thing that remained was to open his own.

And still he hesitated, terrified, until he realized the hour would be up before he could deal with it, if he waited any longer.

**My oldest friend, my only friend who remembers when I was only myself, and not the Corps--**

**The one thing I wanted more than anything else, was you for co-pilot. But I couldn't do that to any of you. (Why does English no longer have a functioning second-person plural pronoun? Unglaublich!)**

**I still wished for it, though, and felt guilty -- yet if I had, you'd be dead or dying too, now, instead of Tamsin, and I was glad and guilty for that as well.**

**I'm tired, Herc, more than you know -- but if I could have stayed with you even a single day more, I would. I never wanted to bring you sorrow.**

**I know you feared I doubted you, never believed I never did in our worst hours. But it's true, your Badger loyalty was the one thing I depended on, as everything we built, everything I had control over, fell to pieces around us.**

**I won't tell you not to doubt -- words no more use than Canute's to the sea! But when you do, read again what I put inside your wedding ring.**

**Please, be patient -- with yourself, with the world, with life itself -- know that you are loved, and remember that I loved you, as much as a cold-hearted Serpent ever could--**

**Damn, I'm lecturing again and no time to rewrite. Listen, sometimes you'll feel like the guy in the fable who found a freezing viper and tried to bring it home and save it. It's okay.**

**All the photos of any of us that I ever took, and any of you sent me, are in the zip file.**

All of them -- he clicked, and his breath caught, because it was a near-endless collage of his dreams -- or the dreams that he **would** have, if human brains were kinder things. How many stolen sleepless hours had the man spent, combing through endless backups of phone and email, sorting through his methodical yet arcane personal filing systems, the obsessive precautions he took that allowed his reckless gestures?

There were pictures from their first meeting, in Los Angeles -- the permitted ones, and the forgiven one, and the elder Martins, whom they'd **both** loved and lost.

And from that first visit, when he'd spent the Christmas holidays with them -- the silly pictures of them all on the seashore, back when they were all together, when they were **happy** , when Angela was alive and Chuck hadn't hated either of them -- the one she'd taken of the two of them sitting back to back leaning against each other, reading intently in the shade while everyone else splashed--

\--the one Stacker had taken of him holding her over his head like a cartoon circus strong-man or a poster for those old beach blanket movies, the picture he'd taken of the two of them, tangoing in the waves and how **that** had happened, how she'd gotten past his reserve he never did know, had just looked up one minute and there they were, like something out of a music video, him dipping her down to the foam, **still** the two most beautiful people he'd ever seen--

There was that insane road trip up the California coast, where he'd thought they were all going to die, repeatedly, what with Tamsin and Luna both convinced they could drive a caravan, left-hand-drive or not, and Angela saying it **couldn't** be any harder than an ambulance -- and when he'd called Stacker up where he was stuck in Frankfurt doing something hush-hush and told him that he wasn't missing **anything** , this was **_NOT_** a romantic getaway weekend it was Mad Max, they just needed a railgun on the roof and some chainsaws, and he was about to thumb a lift back to the Martins and stay there with the baby, or maybe crawl under a bed and never come out -- he'd just laughed and said **_I told you so..._**

And the week they'd taken out of his leave allotment to go up to see him in Hong Kong, and been introduced to Jiachen in person, at last -- and he'd thought that Angela was going to hang onto Captain Lei's ankles and beg her to bring **her** home, when they met her, but then **he'd** felt rather the same way! -- and in hindsight he wondered if she wouldn't have made as good a Marshal, the way Stacker had wanted all along, in spite of all her reasoned objections that **_nobody_** would listen to her because of her sex and race and nation...

And she too -- like all of his old comrades-in-arms now but one -- had gone down with her Jaeger, when her prototype Mark II had revealed a fatal design flaw at the worst possible moment, reporting calmly from the waves with her final observations on the failure-in-progress so that some good would come of it -- as she would have from the spacecraft she'd always dreamed of piloting, had the world been different.

And he alone was left to remember them all as they **were** , not the dry unshaded reports, nor the unsorted, ungrounded confusion of emails and notes and all the other communications of their lives, shading without structure, and who would **remember** when he was gone?

Just like the glimpses of his lost home, the little house and the whole town and their friends and colleagues who hadn't made it either -- that glorious time at Point Lookout when they'd all sat around on the deck, sung and told stories and thrown marshmallows at each other, and watched the moon and the Southern Cross go by until the sun came up, him and Angela, Liam and Phuong and Kim and Gerry-- and Stacker in the midst of them, always with that look of -- not discomfort, no, but the awareness that he didn't fit and that they were trying to hold him in their orbit regardless, and appreciating it...

And -- **_oh no, oh no, no_** \-- there were the pictures of Stacker and Chuck, that both of them had taken, him carrying the two-year-old on his shoulder with a wary look, having already been bitten -- rescuing him from an onslaught of ducks at the park in LA, when his headlong preschooler's pursuit of them had made them think he **must** have bread, and reversed the direction of the chase -- keeping him from climbing up **on** the rail, that time they went on the whale watch, and holding him steady **at** it -- at the train museum by Amberley, and the huge Kitty Hawk model kite they had all built in the kitchen and taken first to the base, to be admired and 'tested' by Dad's friends, and then to the beach, that weekend, for play and lessons in aeronautics that even Chuck seemed to find interesting then--

Even the last visit, before the War, with Chuck slouched sullen and uninterested on their veranda, which he'd chalked up to kids being that age but -- as he would learn only too late -- had partly been caused by neighbour kids and schoolmates asking if Stacker was his **mum's** boyfriend, or his **dad's,** because grown-ups weren't allowed to have friendships like theirs, to have sleepovers and stay up watching movies and playing games, there were no **good** words for relationships as strange and bright as what they three had made, whether it had stayed as chaste as those idyllic days in bygone Brisbane, or if they had lived up to neighbourhood suspicions and been brave enough then, any of them, to try...

He had to stop then, because it was too much, he couldn't deal with it now, and he was almost out of time anyway.

Shaking, and with shaking fingers, he managed to get the steel box out of his pocket and open and to get the letter and player out of it without dropping them, and then with **much** more effort, bracing with his bad arm as best he could, to get the wire untwisted and unthreaded from its hinges without losing any of it under the desk.

He had to move the ring directly into the projector beams to see the inside of it clearly enough to make out the engraving, and squint, too -- **_I AM old_** , he admitted -- but even though he could only make out the one word in his native tongue before his eyes filled too much to read at all, he knew it was the same promise, in all the five principal languages of the Corps:

**ALWAYS |永| SIEMPRE |вечность|永遠**

And then the last piece fell into place, like his own old Mark III that had had that one arm joint that never was quite right after one extra-rough fight, something that could never be **identified** , no matter how many pistons or relays were replaced, how much trueing of the outer hull with scope and scanner -- some indefinable combination of factors keeping just one panel from properly moving when it should, sometimes, and what he'd **found** that would set it in place was a certain quick flex of his elbow, something that nobody could explain, but it never failed, make that little shift and a sheet of metal longer than a freight train engine would thunder down into its proper position.

 ** _You can always find me in the Drift,_** he'd told Mako, when they'd all run out of time -- and the words had been spoken to his foster-daughter, but in the hearing of them all, and when he put aside his own scorching anguish that he hadn't been part of that, down there, instead -- when he thought rather about his son's last words to him, in the hearing of them all -- how he had sounded both proud of his old man, and to be where he was, doing what he was, when he pushed that final button.

And there was **one solitary element** , one factor only that could account for the change, and that was that he'd Drifted, all that long flight to the Breach, all that trek across the sea floor, with Stacker.

It had **changed** him, not just steadied his nerve, he'd gone from grim resolve and miserable regret -- the twinned reflection of his own, when the door had closed between them -- to a fierce, unshakeable certainty and a calm joy that had been so brutally at odds with the mood of LOCCENT, submitting his body and his will to a man he'd had nothing but **contempt** towards the previous evening -- and panicked **horror** , at the thought of neural handshake with, when they'd last spoken, just before he'd gone to fetch Max.

(Dread, and revulsion, on top of his fear of being overcome by his own fears again -- and yet when the countdown reached its end, he'd slipped into it like a cliff diver to the waves' embrace...)

Not unresistingly, all the way -- and he **_knew_** what that was like, to have a co-pilot fight against your strategies, strain not only with muscle strength but with the whole force of their mind against you, how sometimes it had just been safer to let Chuck run their battles the way **he** wanted to, rather than risk falling out of sync (and then the boy only scorned him the more for being weak enough to **let** him) -- but still **_accepting_** (and that without resentment, without bitterness!) the older pilot's seniority...when, had they **listened** to his own advice, to LOCCENT's best call from all their array of data, they would have plunged straight into that ambush, unprepared.

The whole bloody **mission** had been doomed from the start, from the first Double Event, from the time they were told they had eight months' funding to shut down, the length of time till the Coastal Wall was complete, and chosen to burn through those eight months in less than six and then some, to try to do what no navy of the world nor they themselves had accomplished in a dozen years--

And yet, they'd **done** it, in spite of it all, and his losses no greater than anyone else's -- and the terrible, terrible thought that he had tried not to face, had succeeded until Stacker had handed him back his heart, battered and chipped and scored from blows old and recent, in a few packets of data and a scrap of cheap paper, all bound together with silver and steel -- the thought burned through like coals through so much ash, that Stacker had **given him back** his son, too, at the last.

Because he'd been unable to **_reach_** Chuck, when what he had **only** seen through their own Drift, was that he had the suffocating love of a father he felt was **unworthy** of the name, who loved also with an unquestioning devotion a man he thought undeserving of **any** \-- who did not requite **_anything_** given him -- but his voice before he died said that he had **known** , where no shadow of doubt was possible, **how** deeply they were loved, and always **had** been--

**_He saw me, the way Stacker did -- saw HIMSELF, through Stacker's eyes -- all of us, the way he saw the whole world, for just a little while, and it was enough..._ **

He thought about his friend trying, in desperate haste, to write him notes that would fit no matter the outcome -- not knowing if **any** of them would make it back, if the world's lifespan was to be measured in days, as far as the world meant the history of humanity and all its distant cousins that had crept onto or caught hold of the sea-washed stones before anything that could be called animal or plant had taken shape--

 ** _Yeah, well, they'd STILL have had to deal with the roaches,_** with the first hint of a smile since the words **"Double Event"** were spoken down in LOCCENT, imagining the Precursors contending with the old proverbial survivors of humanity's own scorched-earth plans -- an insectile Resistance, sabotaging from the ruins...but it **hadn't** come to that.

 ** _Who would ever WANT to do that to a world?_** before reflecting sadly that there were probably far too many here who would be willing to terraform another planet without a qualm, but many as well who would have been only too happy to help the Precursors, out of compassion for fellow sentients, out of curiosity for other worlds, **if** they'd shown up on ours to talk first, instead of smash--

 ** _And then they might have acted like us anyway, declared it 'Terra Nullius' --_** he sighed with an old familiar, uniquely-Australian shame. **_Still wish we could've got to Mars--_** their old dreams of space travel and sailing the stars, all those years and friendships gone by...

And then he shook off the woolgathering cloud, put the silver ring back on, working it carefully past his knuckles with his limited mobility -- such a strange feeling, the cold metal weight of it, both **_familiar_** and **_not right,_** after half-a-dozen years -- pressed it against his lips, and set off, to eat, and then to Medical, to be there when their surviving children recovered from their victory--

 

 

**Ed elli a me, come persona accorta:**  
 **Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto;**  
 **ogne viltà convien che qui sia morta.**  
  
 **He as one prepar'd replied:**  
 **Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;**  
 **Here be vile fear extinguish'd...**  
 _Inferno, Canto III,_  
Dante Alighieri,  
transl. Henry Francis Cary, 1805

**PER ARDUA AD ASTRA**   
**( THROUGH ADVERSITY TO THE STARS )**   
_Motto of the RAF & RAAF_


	6. NOTES part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (if i knew what i was leaving out, i wouldn't have left it out, now would i?)

**FANDOMS REFERENCED IN THIS STORY**

**Literary** :

Dante's _Divine Comedy,_ specifically the _Inferno,_ in which the First Circle is the place of, among others, the indecisive or uncommitted, and lovers swept away by passion; while the Ninth, and worst, is the Hell of Traitors

John Le Carré, no single title in particular but the whole millieu of suspicion, confusion, and imperial complications in an age of new technology and alignments (that said, _The Spy Who Came in from the Cold_ is def worth reading)

Discworld _(Monstrous Regiment,_ which didn't come out in paperback until October of 2004, is "the book" in the story)

**  
Folkloric (mythologies, legends, fairy tales)**

The Twelve Dancing Princesses  
True Thomas  
Haroun Al Rashid & his Vizier in disguise  
The Grateful Dead  
Alfred in Exile & Canute (or Cnut) the Great from early medieval English "history"  
East Asian fox lore (mostly Japanese, but some of the same themes and even characters crossover from Chinese tales)  
Anglo-Celtic stories of the Sidhe and Fair Folk  
The Red Branch (aka Ulster) Cycle  
The Mabinogion  
Tristan and Iseult  
the Iliad  
the Greek myths of Herakles and Theseus  
& the linked concepts of "xenia/theoxenia/Theoxenios" aka the sacred duty of hospitality towards travelers,  
who may turn out to be travelers from a lot farther off than they said at first, and possibly even the patrons of Hospitality...

  
**Other Fandoms Invoked And / Or Alluded To (books, television, movies as of 2004)**

_Sharpe's Rifles_ ( _Monstrous Regiment_ is fanfic of this), _007, BTVS & Angel, Doctor Who & Torchwood, Farscape, The Hobbit, Jurassic Park, Jane Austen, Master & Commander, Horatio Hornblower, Star Trek, On The Beach, Doctor Strangelove, Winnie the Pooh, Battlestar Galactica_ (reboot), _Star Trek_ (TOS  & TNG), _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ (the original!), _Paddington Bear, Thomas the Tank Engine, Sesame Street, Star Wars, Ever After, The Silver Metal Lover_ (Tanith Lee), _I Robot_ (book  & film), _Harry Potter, Jaws, Lilo & Stitch_  
  


**Songs (creator or first known recording | relevant covers - YouTube should have them all)**

_The Foggy Dew_ || Charles O’Neill/trad. tune - ca. 1919 (note: lyrics reference the battle of Gallipoli with "Suvla or Sud-El-Bar", two notorious sites on the battlefield)| The Wolfe Tones - 1965 (incl. "perfidious Albion" verse)  & 1978 | Sinéad O'Connor & The Chieftains - 1995  
 _The Battle of Brisbane_ || The Pogues - 1984 (note: this is a modern satirical version of an ancient form, marches named after famous battles) (further note: the Wikipedia entry for the historical event didn't exist until 2005)  
 _Bailamos_ || Enrique Iglesias - 1999  
 _Last Day of Summer_ || The Cure - 2000  
 _Don't Fear the Reaper_ || Blue Oyster Cult - 1976  
 _Waltzing Matilda_ || Banjo Paterson/Christina Macpherson, adaptation of Scottish tune - 1895 | used in Ernest Gold's 1959 soundtrack for "On The Beach" | Jimmie Rodgers - 1959  
 _Land Down Under_ || Men at Work - 1981  
 _We Don't Need Another Hero (Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome_ soundtrack) || Tina Turner - 1985  
 _Dream On_ || Aerosmith - 1973  
 _California Dreamin'_ || The Mamas  & the Papas - 1965 | R.E.M. - 1980s concert bootlegs|The Beach Boys - 1986  
 _Icarus (Borne on Wings of Steel)_ || Kansas - 1975  
 _Hotel California_ || The Eagles - 1977  
 _Istanbul, Not Constantinople_ || The Four Lads - 1953 | They Might Be Giants - 1990 | The Muppets 1996  
 _Peace of Mind_ || Boston - 1976  
 _Burning Heart (Rocky IV_ soundtrack) || Survivor - 1985  
 _Do You Hear The People Sing?_ || Les Miserables - 1980 French libretto / 1985 English libretto  
 _Princes of the Universe (Highlander Theme)_ || Freddie Mercury/Queen - 1986  
 _And the Band Played Waltzing Mathilda_ || Eric Bogle - 1971 | The Pogues - 1985  
 _Parting Glass_ || Scots/Irish trad., Sir Walter Scott called a variant of this version "old" in 1814 | The Clancy Brothers  & Tommy Makem - 1959 (a concert staple of theirs) | Cara Dillon - 2009 (where I learned it)  
 _Here's a Health to the Company_ || Scots/Irish trad., 1700s | The Chieftains - 1989 | Brobdingnagian Bards - 2001 (probably where I learned it, or may have been an open mike night somewhere)   
_Anthem_ || Leonard Cohen - 1992

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [last line drawn in sand and surf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228696) by [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49)




End file.
